The Dark Side of the Moon
by May Glenn
Summary: Previously titled THE TONGUE OF A VAMPIRE. A one-shot of Sam rescuing Dean from vampires became a humorous, angsty adventure following the Pink Floyd album in question. Takes place before canon episode 5x16 Dark Side of the Moon, otherwise no relation.
1. Speak to Me

_A/N: So here I go…posting late at night when my inhibitions are low and I'm not afraid to post potential crap. I seem to have a predilection for Sam rescuing Dean, and here it's from vampires. Totally without plot. Might continue/construct a real story around it someday. Let me know if I should or not. _

_**Disclaimer: Not mine. Lucky for them.**_

The tongue of a vampire is very much like the tongue of a cat. Only bigger, obviously, and dexterous in the way only (Dean considered himself an expert in this field) human tongues could be. But vampires had no saliva, and it gave their tongues a rough sandpapery quality—painfully so on the tender skin of a wound.

Dean knew all about vampire tongues now, too, and this was a field he definitely wished he wasn't expert in. The vampires were keeping him alive on purpose, and for as long as possible. Dean didn't flatter himself thinking he had survived through sheer force of will or superhuman stamina: if they had wanted him drained he'd be breakfast before you could say lunch. But that wasn't the point. He was the party trick, the dessert, the Johnnie Walker Blue Label you brought out at special occasions to impress the Joneses. He was bragging rights. And they were making him last.

Not even the angels could find him, not since Castiel had made him and his brother invisible to angel-radar. Dean almost—_almost_—would have preferred Zachariah to these bastards. God, but he did hate it when the villains were smug.

Much to his pride's despair, they hardly needed any form of restraints on him anymore. For the first few days they had gotten a kick out of struggles, watching him make himself bleed and running savoring tongues over his wrists and ankles to soak up what blood oozed out. They never wasted a drop of his blood, but they were hungry creatures, and the point wasn't that he should last _forever_. He grew weaker and weaker—although they made sure he ate and drank—from loss of blood until he could hardly lift his head, much less stand on his own feet. Dean never stopped fighting, but it stopped mattering. The vampires were stronger than him at the best of times. Now the only purpose the restraints served was to hold him up.

And to humiliate him, of course. They had a _collar_ on him, for Christsakes—like a, well, a pet or a sex slave, Dean wasn't sure which was more humiliating. His hands chained above his head wasn't enough but they had to have a collar pulled tight to the ceiling as well. And his ankles were pinned to the floor, more to pull him taut than to keep him from fighting, since it had been some time since he had managed to strike one of them.

Being held by this coven wasn't like hell. Much. The helplessness was the same, and the despair, but he had been so horribly aware in hell, while this was more than half a nightmare, a half-drugged existence as his brain struggled to function on ever less and less blood. But the hoping, praying, _willing_ Sam to rescue him. That was the same.

…

Dean didn't hardly register when they came to feed anymore. It was more comfortable if he stayed unconscious, and it wasn't as if he could have fought them effectively, anyway. He wasn't fully aware when his left wrist was released and the soft spot on the inside of his elbow was suckled, not until he felt its grip on him tighten suspiciously. It sensed danger. Dean pricked up at this. Danger for vampires could mean something fantastic for him. Then again, it could be Michael for all he knew, and wouldn't that be grand? _No, sorry, still won't take your offer. I'm a little tied up right now…_

Dean cried out as the vampire engaged in the scorched earth tactics, tearing as much flesh out of Dean's arm as it could as it ripped its teeth free. "You," it snarled.

"You," a voice replied, slow burning. "Let go of my brother."

Dean's heart dared to flutter, although he was almost too far gone to recognize the voice. He was vaguely aware of sounds of scuffle, sounds of battle, more vampires joining in, but his rescuer sounded unbeatable. But loudest in his ears was the beating of his own heart, and the drops of blood hitting the floor thrummed through him as he fell away.

…

"Oh, God, Dean…."

The coven had kept him surprisingly clean, which Sam guessed made some perverse kind of sense: the same way it made sense that he would endeavor to keep a sandwich clean. The discoloration of his skin wasn't masked by dirt or blood or filth. The whiteness was striking: not pale, not gray, like he'd seen Dean before, in the hospital or sick or scared, but actually chalk-vampire-clown-white. He was covered head to toe in a thin sheen of sweat, naked but for boxers, stretched vertically in the middle of a back room.

Red was the other striking feature of Dean's anatomy: red messes dotted the length and breadth of his frame. For how swollen and ragged the skin was in places, Sam guessed they had favorite feeding spots: Dean's neck was a bloody mass, as were the insides of his arms and knees at the joint. The main arteries at groin, armpit and thigh had been tasted, but only once by the looks of it.

Dean was flat out, and Sam didn't blame him. He had walked in on feeding time, and the wound in Dean's arm still oozed blood from where the vamp had been interrupted by Sam's entrance. Reinforcements had come, and six now lay headless around the room.

"Dean! Oh, shit, Dean…"

Sam didn't remember crossing the distance to his brother's side: he was just suddenly there. He shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and tore his button-down off to wrap around the still-bleeding elbow. Dean groaned but otherwise didn't react. Sam gingerly folded the joint, propping it against his chest as he felt around the collar for the lock. As he was formulating a half-hearted tease about Dean's experimental kinks, he felt Dean tense and shy away from his touch. Sam stopped immediately, moving his hands from Dean's throat to his face, which he began to pat gently.

"Dean. Dean? You with me, man?" He struggled to raise the heavy head, but didn't dare pull at the swollen eyelids. It looked like they had been beaten raw, as a good portion of his body had. He wasn't even sure Dean would be able to open his eyes. So he was pleased when he saw a faint twinkle as his brother's eyes slitted open.

Dean, seeing only a vague shape, and the memory of fingers at his neck like a vampire's tongue, hissed in a sharp breath and forced the whimper which escaped him into a groan of rage: "You get away from me you sonofabitch," he managed to spit. His left arm was free, but mostly useless, although he pushed at the shape with all the strength he could muster.

"Dean!" Sam insisted, taking his hand firmly in his while still supporting Dean's head. "Whoa, Dean, easy, it's me. It's Sam, okay, and I've got you, I'm gonna get you out of here."

Dean relaxed visibly, though it was difficult to tell if it was from relief or loss of consciousness.

"Dean? Dean, come on, stay with me, man."

After a moment, Sam was rewarded with a faint but definite, "Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean. Right here. I gotcha. Hang on, I'm gonna get you clear." Still trying to support his limp noodle brother, Sam struggled with the locks until he got him free and horizontal. Dean groaned to be so moved, but curled inward against his brother's chest, his fingers closing on Sam's t-shirt with a strength that surprised them both. Chick flick moment or no, it had been almost two weeks since Dean had been taken, and Sam was damned if he didn't just _hold_ his brother for a moment. Dean relaxed into the embrace, and Sam only released him when Dean's groans told him he squeezed too tightly.

…

It wasn't that Dean didn't want to be held, not that at all. Human contact after being manhandled by corpses for two weeks? Hell yeah, he wanted that. But Sam had gone and hulked out on him these past few years, and Jesus, the boy was stronger than he knew, and his whole body really fucking hurt. If he hadn't been, you know, 30 years old, he might have said "Owwie, Sammy," just like that because, yeah, _everything_ hurt, and he had decided that it was Sam's job to make it better. Dean reckoned 26 was old enough for Sam to start paying him back for all the "Owwie, Dee," times.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam apologized, loosening his hold but not breaking contact. "Whattya say we get outta here, huh?"

Dean tried nodding his head before realizing what a monumentally bad idea that was. In addition to springing a leak in his neck, it made him suddenly dizzy and it tripled the amount of pain he was in. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he passed out, because the next thing he knew, he was bundled into Sam's arms and being carried somewhere.

He woke to the scent of leather and metal and oil—Impala. Sam was laying him flat in the back seat, and Dean attempted to fight this, stiffening slightly—as much as he could—and groaning, but Sam, mistaking his desire to not lie prone for sudden pain or fear, shushed him. "It's okay, Dean, easy. I gotcha. Car. We're going home. You with me?"

Dean couldn't see through his swollen, puffy, bloody eyelids, but he felt Sam's touch, felt him laying a blanket over him, felt him tuck his hoodie under his head as a pillow. Too tired to do anything else, even to mention that he'd rather be sitting up in the passenger side next to his brother than lying helpless back here, Dean nodded faintly.

"Good," Sam squeezed his arm gently and crawled out of the back seat, shutting the door and folding himself into the driver's seat.

The rest of the drive was a blur for Dean: lights sliding over his eyelids, soft rumbling, traffic noises, faint motion. The next thing he knew, Sam was manipulating him out of the car and once more into his arms.

"Can walk," he managed, but Sam only laughed at him.

"Okay, man, sure," he said genuinely, but lifted him effortlessly and carried him inside anyway without giving Dean a chance to even _try_…

Then Dean was on a bed, and fading fast. He was cold now, suddenly, and Sam was removing what little clothing he had left and started poking at the wounds, investigating, cleaning, stitching, wrapping. God, there were a lot of them. Dean didn't really want to stay awake to see how this ended, so he was compliant when Sam shoved two pills in his mouth followed by a mouthful of water. He knew within minutes that this was the good stuff, and he was blissfully out for the count not much long after.


	2. Breathe

_A/N: I now have a cunning plan as to where this should go. I think. It's just a matter of me writing it. Don't hold your breath. ;)_

_**Disclaimer: Still don't own Supernatural. I'm trying, though…**_

Sam's first thought, as he watched his brother slip into drugged unconsciousness, was that he needed to get him to a hospital.

This thought was closely followed by a resounding _what the fuck are you thinking?_

Dean had been a vampire chew toy for _two weeks_. He was down to what Sam reckoned was his last pint of blood, his wrists and ankles were handcuff-raw, and the many wounds that peppered his body looked very much like bite marks. The hospital would ask too many questions. Too many unanswerable questions.

So, no. No hospital.

There was something else about the bite-marks. After careful inspection, Sam recognized more than one bite mark. There had been six vampires, sure, but Sam almost thought he could discern close to fourteen different sets of teeth. Like more than just the six vamps had had a taste.

Sam shivered and ran a hand through his hair as he stood up, taking in a deep breath to collect himself. He switched his brain into automatic gear before he had too much time to think about it. Okay. Immediate first aid had been dealt with. Time to call it in.

Sam flipped out his phone. Bobby had been the first to know when Dean had been taken, and was still searching feverishly for him every way he knew that didn't involve physically looking around.

"Bobby?"

_Sam? Any news?_

"Yeah. Yeah, Bobby, he's here. I got him."

_Shit, boy, he all right?_

"Um. Not so much. I think…nothing a little—_a lot_ of rest won't cure, but…"

_I'm a big boy, Sam, you don't have to pull punches with me. Why didn't they eat him up? I'm sure as hell glad he ain't dead, but I'd also like to know why he ain't, 'specially as that ain't vamp style. They didn't…turn him, did they?_

"What? Hell, no, Bobby! He's—he's still him. I think they…I think they were just…" Sam looked pathetically at his sleeping brother, unwilling to actually vocalize what he thought had happened. "Um. Look, I think they were kind of…showing him off, you know? Like, Dean got a little too famous, I guess, you know? More than just the six vamps I wasted had sunk their teeth into him, I can tell you that for sure."

There was a pause on the other end. Sam could _hear_ Bobby frowning with distaste. But he apparently steeled himself well, because there was no hint of rage or fear in the voice that finally spoke: _So they had themselves a few dinner parties with other covens, is that what you're saying? And Winchester was the other white meat?_

"Uh. Yeah. Maybe. He's unconscious, I can't ask him, but that's what I'd guess if he's not dead and not turned. Trying not to think about it, but, yeah. I think so."

_Yeah, sounds about right. Sick bastards. Okay, so you got him under control? Need to bring him round to mine?_

"We're a bit far out, but thanks, Bobby. I'll look after him here for a few days."

_Okay. You call me, any problems. And you're welcome anytime._

"Thanks, Bobby, sure thing. Bye."

Sam practically had to bite his phone to keep from screaming once he disconnected the call. It literally made his blood _boil_ that anyone—much less small-fry vamps—had done this to Dean, _and_ while the fucking Apocalypse waited in the wings. Hadn't he had to suffer enough? Hadn't they both?

Closing his eyes, Sam managed the switch to slow burn—the way Dean had taught him: ha, damned if Dean hadn't literally taught him _everything_, even about the correct application of rage—as he just stared at his sleeping brother. Dean really looked way too pale. Sam tried his pulse: it was there, but slow, and weak. And he was cold to the touch.

Well, that was something he could deal with, at least. He stood suddenly, and stalked across the room, but as he unlocked the motel door Dean roused himself.

"Sam?" he called, squinting, hand twitching.

Sam immediately backtracked to the bed. "Hey, Dean, right here. Go back to sleep, man. You're safe now, remember?"

Dean stilled a little when he felt the bed dip next to him and heard Sam's voice, but, "D-don't go anywhere," he said, a little desperately.

Sam bit his lip. He tried not to think about this—_Jesus Christ, did Dean still have abandonment issues?_—_Or is he just in heroic-moronic mode and more worried about me than himself?_—_Which one is worse?_—and gave Dean's hand a brotherly squeeze. "It's all right, man, I'm just going out to the car for the heating pad. You're really cold and it's either that or I'm crawling into bed with you. Probably both."

Sam had meant it as a joke, and Dean appropriately turned up his nose at the idea. "Don't even _think_ about it, dude," he said distantly.

"Fine. You gonna be okay? I'll be two minutes. Just go back to sleep for me, yeah?"

Sleep was overpowering Dean anyway, the fear leaching away into unconditional trust—_Goddamn it, how can he still trust me?_—as his eyes closed and his head relaxed back into the pillow. "'Kay, Sammy," he whispered, suddenly all of five years old.

"Be right back, Dean," Sam replied, pulling the blankets up around his brother without seeming like he was actually tucking him in. He stared for a few seconds before getting up. Whatever Famine had said about Dean being dead inside was just plain _wrong_. People who were dead inside weren't _afraid_, didn't _care_ for other people, didn't _trust_ people. Dean was the most alive person Sam knew, because no matter how _numbed_ he was and was repeatedly made to be, his vitality still showed through. If only to Sam.

Sam had to rummage through the trunk for a little longer than he would have liked, searching for the electric heating pad, but he knew they had one, he'd put it on a bruised rib just last month. There. Just as his fingers latched on, however, a gust of wind picked up. The motel lights flickered faintly. Nothing suspicious, unless you knew what to look for. And were paranoid.

Because Sam smelled something on the wind. A smell that he definitely recognized, but didn't like.

Blood.

Sam froze, not wanting to give away that he knew, letting his peripheral vision wander, hoping to catch something. Unfortunately, he wasn't so lucky. Even when he shut the trunk and turned back to the motel, sweeping the empty, dark parking lot, he saw nothing. But he knew what was there. How many other covens were likely to be in the area? At least one, probably two. Maybe more, but no way to be sure until Dean could be coaxed awake long enough to answer.

Dean.

Sam jolted to a stop mid-stride. Then he broke into a sprint for the motel room door.


	3. On the Run

_A/N: Yes, I know, sorry about the cliffhanger! Believe me, it was no fun for me, either! Thanks to the support of Silver Lights, suggestions from monkeymuse, and K Hanna Korossy for edits, not to mention many others who encouraged via review or favoriting, I have plans to make a proper H/C Adventure out of this. Which means whumpage all around! :D_

_Aaaaaaaanyway, the title of this work will change…maybe when I'm all the way done, or now just to avoid confusion, kind of in honor of the latest episode (which I actually wasn't a huge fan of, but there you go), to __**The Dark Side of the Moon**__. All chapters will then be after song titles from the Pink Floyd album in question, because driver picks the music, and shotgun shuts his cakehole._

_**Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke and his Machiavellian machinations.**_

ON THE RUN

"Dean!" Sam bellowed. Dean heard the motel door slam hard, and the sounds of rushed packing followed it. "Dean, come on, man, you gotta get up!"

Dean groaned and shifted, groaning again as the movement caused more pain. "Come on, Dad, five more minutes," he slurred. The macabre was all Dean's blood-drained and vampire-oppressed brain could come up with in the department of humor. Sam didn't think it was funny. Neither did Dean, really.

Sam's involuntary bitch-face wasn't wasted on his brother, however, no matter how delirious he was, nor was the regression into little-brother-mode. While Sam busied himself getting all their crap together, throwing things into duffels helter-skelter—_Shit, things must be bad,_ Dean thought, _he's usually the anal one about not putting guns in the clothes bag, and food in the shoes bag_—Dean managed to haul himself into a sitting position. He was pretty sure the Winchester stubbornness came into play here, because mind and body, he literally felt as if he was running on empty. But Sam needed him up, so he was up.

Okay. Clothes. _Am I dressed?_ Miraculously finding himself already sitting up, Dean gingerly pulled the covers down to check. _Sorta. Sweatpants? Great. So I look like an invalid but at least I'm not naked. Could use a shirt, though. Hey, Sammy, where's_—

Suddenly Sam's face was hovering three inches from his vision, and Dean jumped a little. So much for those lightning reflexes, or spidey-senses for that matter. Sam was already loaded up with two duffels and a backpack, and, once his ears played catch up, Dean realized Sam was talking to him and ready to go:

"So no shirt?" he asked, trying to make light of the situation but coming across only weary-sounding.

"What? Dean, there's no time. I'm gonna help you stand up and I need you to hang on to me, okay? I think we got more vamps out there. We need to be gone, like, yesterday."

Dean nodded, too far gone to do much else, and managed to solidify his spine and legs enough that Sam could sort of drape him across his shoulder. Seeing his brother accepting assistance without a fight both calmed and worried Sam, but he didn't dare push the issue. "Let's go," he said. "Car's just outside." He didn't add that if the vampires decided to crowd them even a little bit, ten yards was as good as a mile, but Dean guessed as much.

It took all Dean had just to stay conscious, as with every movement the bright white light of pain exploded behind his eyeballs. He hoped he wasn't actually whimpering out loud. Once immediate pain was under control, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other. There was skirmish noise and movement outside his immediate consciousness, the sound of a machete slicing flesh, heads hitting asphalt, and as much as Dean wanted in on this fight, he knew Sam had it as under control as it was gonna be, and if he could just concentrate on not being an unnecessary burden, they'd get out of this no problem.

Sam had a second machete in his belt, though, within reach. And Dean made careful note of that.

As adrenaline began to wake Dean from his doped, blood-deprived existence, out of the corner of his one swollen eye he spotted the Impala, gleaming and friendly and safe, not far away. But there were still two vamps sitting on her, like vultures on a carcass. This filled him simultaneously with rage and dread, but—everything moved so fast, or at least his brain was slow to recognize what was going on—suddenly there was blood everywhere and Sam was taking care of those problems.

But Dean had seen _Jurassic Park_, and he wasn't about to let some vampire bitch out-flank his brother. The next thing he knew, Dean had a machete through the throat of the vampire who had tried to sneak up on Sam, just as Sam completed the decapitation of the last vampire on the car. Stop, freeze-frame, circle camera angle. That's right, like that one scene in _300_. Damn but he and his brother were one bitchin' badass vampire-slaying team.

"Whoa, Dean!" Sam shouted, and suddenly reality returned, hard. Dean shook himself, wanting to make sure he hadn't just hallucinated that, but no, three dead vampires lay around them, Sam was congratulating him even as he scolded him for being a monumentally heroic numbskull, and cussing at him because he was bleeding again. But Sam was also dragging him to the Impala and depositing him in the passenger side seat, and Dean could deal with anything else now. They'd made it to the Impala. It was all good.

Shit, but he hurt all over. _No, don't let the adrenaline fade. Stay with the program._ Dean forced himself awake, keeping his eyes open, as if this would help. The car started with a rumble, and the world began blurring past outside the window. He had all the bags on top of him, which was nice because they were added warmth, but they were also added pressure, and that kinda hurt. But at least the weapons bag was on top.

With fevered sluggishness Dean eased the zipper back. A switchblade spilled out and fell beneath his feet before he could catch it, but Dean's eyes had found their prize:

"Whoa, Dean, easy, put it down, man." There was a heavy hand suddenly on his, on his gun.

"Nooooo," Dean tried not to sound petulant, tried to sound more focused than he felt. "Need it. Riding shotgun."

"Dean, _vampires_. Beheading. Machete, remember? You okay man?"

Nothing could rile Dean up like Sam's patient voice. If only he wasn't so tired, and confused, he'd learn Sam a thing or two. "Desert Eagle, Sammy. .50 cal."

"That's for Zombies, man, not vampires."

"Dude, do I look in machete-wielding condition to you? Anyway: beheading, exploding heads, what's the difference when you get right down to it?"

Dean proved his point by shooting out the driver's side window at a vampire that had latched on and decided to take a peek inside. The window shattered outward, but then, so did her head. And yeah, so long as the head was _gone_ did it _really_ matter whether you were a traditionalist or not? Dean never got his kicks by playing by the rules.

"Fuck! My car!" Dean said, only now realizing what he had done. It was all very surreal, actually. Able only to focus on one thing at a time, while he had shot at the vampire he had been ignoring Sam, but now that the vampire was gone, Sam came back into his periphery, pushing him back against the seat and shouting at him.

"Dean! What the hell? Are you okay?"

_Yeah, not so much_, he admitted. Probably not the best person to be holding an automatic weapon right now. He managed to flick the safety on before his fingers went slack, and Sam eased the gun from his hands. Now he felt very naked and exposed, but they were in the car, almost on the highway, and Sam had first watch. _Okay, calm down_, he tried to tell himself. _It's all right now._

Or maybe that was Sam talking: "It's all right, Dean. Relax. We're outta there, now. Easy. We'll head up to Bobby's, okay?"

"Yeah…'Kay…" Dean let his head fall against the seat and his eyes slide closed, but he didn't want to sleep just yet. "How many were there?"

"I killed three, you got the fourth...and the fifth. Do you…" He heard Sam huffing the way he did when he was doing something he didn't like, and then he continued. "Were there any other vampires around when they had you, Dean? Any other covens you may have…uh, run into?"

"Dined with?" Dean joked. Sam clearly didn't think it was funny. "Uh. Yeah. Three or four other families. Heard about me. Us. Wanted to see…" Dean's face was suddenly far-off and pained, like when he thought or spoke of hell, or their mother. "What the fuss was about, I guess. Anyway. Yeah. Two more may still be in town."

"Vampires?"

"No, numbnuts, two _covens_. Try like fifteen vampires."

"Look, just hold on, all right? Bobby's is only a few hours away. Look, we'll get you patched up, and we'll just start over, all right? Just have to find these suckers again and—"

Dean's sense of déjà vu was already overpowering enough. The big angry truck slamming into Sam's side of the car sure didn't help.


	4. Time

_A/N: Okay, so hopefully I've beaten Dean up enough physically, so whaddya say I lay into him emotionally, huh? This chapter's at the prodding of __**monkeymuse**__, who specifically requested vamps feeding on Sam while Dean watches, and I just love the way her plot bunnies bounce, so I'm going for it. There is, however, a small complication to vamps feeding off Sam—plot! So if this chapter doesn't satisfy, do not fear because there will be more! Mwahahahaa!_

_Warning: Should probably attach this warning to every story I write, but vampires will be vampires and Winchester boys raised by an ex-marine will run their mouths. Which is to say, watch out for strong language. I don't rate M because there's no sex and the violence is pretty tame. Don't like, don't read._

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**_

…

TIME

…

"About time. I think he's waking up."

_Aw, crap. That's never good._

Dean wasn't sure what he had done to give himself away, but he dragged himself from unconsciousness with mulish sluggishness even if he was already compromised. He was in a massive amount of pain—more so than before, if that was possible—_Oh, you know exactly where your pain limits are, Winchester, stop trying to tell yourself that this is the worst it could get_—and he was pretty sure that he recognized the voice. If he was right, he definitely didn't want to open his eyes. If they wanted him awake, it certainly wasn't to play fucking table tennis.

"Good. I'm starving."

_Yep. Things have definitely gone tits up._

Vampires. The vampires had him again—or still? Had he really completely imagined Sam rescuing him?

"You leave him alone, you sick bastards!" That was Sam's voice.

_Nope. Definitely not my day. _

The fleeting hope that Sam's rescue, their escape, and the car wreck which would leave them both in the clutches of whichever was the fastest coven, had all been a dream or hallucination were chucked out the window and into the gutter below to join the rest.

He and Sam were in what appeared to be a basement somewhere, dungeon-like: dark, damp and depressing. He was tied to beam or pipe or something, cold and metal and large, his arms pulled taut above and behind his head, his legs tied down. He was facing Sam, who was bound similarly to another pipe across the room. Vampires crowded the room. That wouldn't have bothered him so much except that they were eyeing his brother hungrily, like thirsty wolves, tasting, groping, testing, touching, and if Sam was on the menu then Dean had a pretty good idea why they wanted him conscious. This made his blood run cold. But he had been prepared for the worst before he even opened his eyes, so he handled it quite well—

"Get the fuck away from my brother!" he snarled, immediately straining against his bonds.

—All things considered. The vampires laughed at him, as well they should: what the hell was he thinking? Made myself bleed: check. Made idle threats: check. Let the vamps know I'm alert and awake: check. Let the vamps know exactly how much Sam means to me…

Double-check.

One of the vampires stepped forward to him, and before the pasty bitch even opened her mouth, Dean knew he was in for a monologue.

"Well, well, well. Nice to see you again, too, Dean."

Dean was already 0 for 1, so it couldn't be said that mad-dogging a vampire while tied up was the _most_ stupid thing he could do right now. It had to be at least, what, third?

"You know, I'm sorry, but you vampires all kinda look alike to us, so you'll have to give me something else to go on—"

Yeah, okay, saw _that_ coming. There was, very suddenly, a knee in his stomach, and no air in his lungs, and Sam was shouting more idle threats.

"You'll have your chance to talk. Why don't you just zip it for now?"

"Dean!" Dean raised his eyes to Sam's worried face. "You all right, man?"

He nodded, afraid that if he opened his mouth he was going to throw up. His eyes slid to the lead vampire, who was eyeing him with amusement, the same amusement with which a cat eyes a mouse whose tail is in a trap. Presumably she had been one of the vampires to have a taste of him sometime in the past two weeks, but he had hardly been conscious for much of it, and there had been a hell of a lot of vampires who had taken a nibble. All vampires did sort of look alike to Dean, it was true, so made a concerted effort to remember something about this one. She was hot, yeah, but, then, most things with boobs and legs were to Dean. Her pale skin, dark brown/black hair, black leather and lace ensemble and dominatrix boots were all par for the course, except that her build was a little on the voluptuous side for a vampire. She was covered in tattoos, which was also fairly normal, except he was pretty sure she had more tattoos than anyone else in the room. That would work.

"Now unless you want a repeat of your stay with Brett's coven—" _Brett? _So _that_ had been the blondie's name? Christ, how down on his game did Dean have to be to be nabbed by a coven led by the faggiest-named vampire since Lestat? "—you'll listen up. I just need you to answer a few questions about this whole apocalypse thing."

Yeah, because there were so many ways _that_ could go well. Part of him was initially surprised that she didn't know, wasn't in on it, even, before he stepped back a bit to realize demons and vampires probably didn't have the same endgame in mind. "You think I'm giving hard-earned intel to a _vampire_? Think again, bitch."

"Of course you will. We're on the same side, boys—" she caught Sam in her gaze now, too, "sort of," she added with an evil smile. God, was she trying to be _cute_ about it? That had to be Dean's least favorite villain angle, and he'd seen the gamut. "I don't like demons any more than you do. But a girl's gotta eat, so you understand why I won't just set you free." Her voice was approaching _perky_. A perky goth? What the hell?

"So, what?" Sam asked. "We die either way? I'm not seeing a lot of incentive for telling you anything."

Her head snapped back to Sam, hair falling as dramatically around her shoulders as Dean was sure it had been planned to do. "It's a matter of _time_," she said sweetly. "How long it takes you to die. You already know, Dean, how long we can make you suffer. How long do you think your little brother would hold out? How long would _you_ hold out, watching your brother dying?"

"Wow, you sure know how to make a sale." Dean flashed her a venomous grin. "What is it you want, exactly?"

She smiled widely, showing rows of perfect human-looking teeth. "Everything you know. How this whole thing started, how it can be stopped, and why you're so damn important in it. Who knows. I may decide _not_ to kill you."

Dean chuckled softly. That he would be a dead man in the end wasn't much enticement to talk, especially since the answers were, _We did_, _Killing Sam might work_, and _We're only the vessels for the final Godzilla vs. Mothra showdown_, respectively. Giving them answers would only be a surer death sentence, and where there was life—and a healthy dose of defiance—there was hope.

Sam caught his eye to give him a meaningful look, and Dean was pretty sure it was the guilty _It's-okay-you-can-tell-her-to-kill-me-and-I-won't-blame-you_ which he was frankly sick to death of, but it very well might have been the heroic _Don't-tell-her-anything-let-her-eat-me_ look.

Sam had been on a supportive, we'll-get-through-this-apocalypse-thing kick the past few weeks. It had been nice. It gave Dean leave to let off steam to the contrary: why don't we just give up? I want to die, etc. As brothers, this was their coping mechanism, this was how they stayed sane. As long as they stayed on opposite ends of the see-saw, neither of them could ever fall off. If Sam was sinking, it was Dean's job to get on top of the game.

"I'm waiting, boys." But she directed her eyes to Dean. She was on the other side of the room now, resting her hand against Sam's chest.

It wasn't that Dean didn't actually have anything snarky to say. He held it back, because it was very clearly his _brother's_ life on the line, not his. He wasn't about to get the kid pistol-whipped for running his mouth if he could help it. So, "No," he said. "Sorry. Not happening."

"Well, let's see if we can change your mind about that," she grinned, full fangs sliding out, and turned back to Sam. The Winchesters locked eyes, Dean apologizing, Sam saying it was all right, both silently agreeing not to tell her anything. There was a hint of goodbye in the gaze, too, just in case.

Watching your brother in pain didn't ever get any easier, otherwise Dean might have been invulnerable to it by now. With the first tooth piercing skin Sam's face went pinched, and as the bite sank deeper into his throat his head flew back, slamming against the pole behind him. He pursed his lips and his body tensed as more and more vamps sank their teeth into him, and one small sound of pain escaped.

When the vamps began hissing and dropping off Sam's body like they had been drinking killer Tabasco sauce instead of blood, retching and screaming on the ground, it had only been a few seconds, but had felt like agonizing minutes to Dean who had been forced to watch. But now Sam and Dean could do nothing but stand dumbfounded as the vampires writhed around on the ground, screaming and spitting and wiping their mouths as if Sam's blood had tasted like poison or gasoline, or as if it burned like five alarm chili.

One of the vamps spotted Dean in its misery, and crawled desperately over to him, eyeing him like a glass of cool milk after spicy curry. He had sunk his teeth into Dean's leg before Tattoo girl came over and kicked him in the gut, sending the vamp flying against the opposite wall. Then she turned on Dean, as if this was his fault.

"What the _hell_ is in that guy?" she snarled. Dean glanced away, tried to catch Sam's eye, but she took hold of his ear with vampire super-strength and redirected his gaze back to her, and as he didn't particularly want his ear ripped off, he went quietly. "That's not human. Is he a warlock? A psychic? A werewolf? What?" Dean locked his jaw, and in a rage she slammed his head back against the pole. "Tell me!"

But Dean outwaited her, biting his lip, and she clearly needed to go rinse her mouth, because she shoved him back, sucker-punched him in the gut, and left the room, barking at her coven to follow. A steel door slammed shut, and Dean heard a bolt being drawn. But they were alone.

"Shit, Sammy, you okay?"

Sam was looking a little worse for the wear, but not in horribly a bad way: except for the six or seven visible wounds dotting his body—something in vampire's teeth or mouth sealed wounds as they disengaged, so it was difficult to simply bleed to death from a vampire bite—he looked a little winded but unharmed. They hadn't had time to drink much at all.

"What the fuck just happened, Dean?" Sam asked, and was five again, wanting Dean to lie and tell him what he wanted to hear.

But Sam wasn't five anymore, and this was getting interesting at best, or just plain serious at worst. "I…don't know, Sam."

They could both take a guess, though. Demon blood. It was unlikely any of the vampires had ever tasted anything like it before, and any vampires who had used Sam as a chew-toy before hadn't had quite the demonic concentration that was still floating around inside him, just weeks after the fight with Famine. The boys exchanged another meaningful look before Dean had had enough. He forced a chuckle.

"Looks like you're one fucking hot tamale, Sammy. I may have to change my stance on you and your habits," he said with enough sarcasm that an involuntary snort bubbled out of Sam before he repaired his pout.

"Okay, well, we're safe for now," Sam said, in _Great Escape_ mode. "But it's only a matter of time before they change their plan and come back." Sam was wriggling rather frantically, but with purpose.

"Why didn't they come after me?" Dean asked, sort of offhandedly, but it had been very clear that, even though they both had the same information, she had expected Dean to do the talking and Sam to do the suffering. _Why?_ It was kind of insulting. Dean much preferred the ultimatums that didn't involve him being responsible for Sam getting hurt—they had experienced plenty of both, and those hurt worse than the ones where _he_ was what was at stake.

Sam fixed him with a serious glare. "Because you're already too far gone, Dean. They were talking, said you wouldn't last another feeding. And you really are running on empty, Dean. Just hang tight. I'm taking care of everything."

"Oh. Great."

"I'm serious, dude. I have a—" Sam grunted and shifted, lowering his voice, even though he was pretty sure they weren't being bugged. "A knife. Trying to pick the lock on the cuffs."

Dean brightened. For the first time in a long while, things were looking up. "Well hurry it up, already!" he snapped in his excitement.

"Shut up, dude. Just because I don't have your experience with handcuffs."

Dean flinched, wondering if that was Sam trying to joke. "What're you saying exactly?"

"Do you know how long it's been since I've gotten out of restraints myself? Doors I can do. Cuffs are weird."

"What? They're easy. It's more of a circular motion. Less—"

"I know, Dean, shut up. Look, I need you to listen out. They could be back any minute."

"It's only a matter of time, Sam," Dean said, then quieted compliantly. Waiting for noise to come through the heavy door, all Dean heard was Sam at work. A pause, a grunt, chains clinking, metal scraping against metal. Then, faintly but decidedly, a promising click.

"Got it."


	5. The Great Gig in the Sky

_A/N: Emotionally!hurt!Dean last chapter, so it must follow, as the night the day…Emotionally!comforted!Dean this chapter. Enjoy what little solace an adorable baby brother can offer._

_Even though this is supposed to take place before the actual 5x16 episode Dark Side of the Moon, it deals with a lot of the issues addressed in the most recent episodes, except this is the way I'd like them to play out. The boys need to go back to being brothers again. So that's what this is, unashamedly. If the boys are a little emotionally OOC, that'd be my bad._

_**Just realized I probably don't have to disclaim every single chapter. Ah, well. **_**Supernatural**_** still not mine. All the cussing which I should warn you about beforehand, however, is totally mine.**_

…

THE GREAT GIG IN THE SKY

…

"All I know is that these guys are important to some of the big players, okay? That's all I know."

The quivering hunter kneeling in reverent terror before Clare helped sooth her bruised ego. A few of her boys had brought it in just after the incident with the nasty-tasting Winchester, and a quick snack to take the edge off and rinse the taste from her mouth had improved her mood immensely.

Also, this scumbag was much more willing to talk than the two difficulties downstairs. She was quickly becoming generous, and had already decided to knock this one unconscious before devouring him.

"Well, aren't _we_ determined to get in someone's good graces?" She beamed at him sweetly. "Keep talking, sugar. I might even let you live." A lie, of course, but he didn't need to know that.

"I—but that's all I know. Someone big—f-from each team, heaven and hell, they both want these boys."

…

"Out of the frying pan, into the fucking fire," Dean snorted, shaking his head in disbelief as Sam was working him out of his cuffs. "You know, it can't _just_ be the apocalypse but we have to deal with these low-lifes, too."

"I know, right?" Sam huffed, struggling with the manacles. Dean was about to cheekily offer to do it himself when there was a click, and Dean's pinioned arms were suddenly loose. "There we go," Sam began, then, "Whoa!" because as soon as Dean had nothing holding him up he began a slow but steady descent towards the concrete.

Sam caught him before he hit, easing him down and leaning him gently back against the pole. "You with me, man?"

Dean rallied, looking confused as to why he was on the floor. "Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure." He shook his head firmly, as if to clear it.

"Okay, well you just chill out here. I'm gonna find us a way out."

…

"Heaven and hell are fighting over these two?" Clare asked, for verification. That didn't make sense. But then, nothing the other planes did ever made sense to her. Like most humans, she just wanted them gone. Go fight their fight on Pluto or something—which was still a fucking planet, by the way, no matter what they were saying these days—she'd been around when that motherfucker was _discovered_—and leave the sheep alone and unagitated in the fold so the wolves can grab the occasional nibble.

"No, no. That's not it at all…" the hunter began. _Damn_, but this boy was being cooperative. She liked that in humans. A good healthy fear of her, and respect for their own lives. The two downstairs clearly didn't have either.

…

"I'm not afraid to die. There's no reason for it, I mean, you have to go sometime…"

"Dean." Sam stopped. "What the fuck, man? Are you even here in this room with me?"

Dean snapped out of it. Shit, but the adrenaline gone was meaning a lot of things weren't making sense any more. But, no, wait, come back: he had been trying to make a point.

"I'm just saying, Sammy. Maybe if we die in a stupid, dumb-luck sorta way, they'll just let us go. Let us stay dead this time." Dean was whining, and that was Sam's main indicator that this wasn't _really_ Dean talking, that this was pain and weariness talking, but still: no smoke without fire.

Sam was suddenly crouched in front of his face, and Dean flinched weakly. "Dean, don't you _ever_ say that again."

Sam paused, partially for emphasis, and partly because he was still struggling with his emotions, and wasn't sure how far he should take this. Then, _what the hell_, he fixed Dean with that fiery glare in his eyes that said a fight was on:

"I need you here, man. You're the only—_only_ thing keeping me from saying 'yes' to Lucifer." Sam sat down heavily, realized that this had needed to be said for weeks and he wasn't going to get a better audience than brooding, depressed, blood-deprived Dean. "Six billion people in this world, Dean, I've already fucked up all their lives beyond reason, and you know what?—_Listen_ to me, Dean—" Sam grabbed his brother's shoulder. "If it weren't for you, there's no guarantee I wouldn't end them, all six billion, if it would mean I could disappear, get rid of this guilt, get it all over with. Go on, give up if you want to, but know I'm going down right behind you. Be a selfish bastard if you—"

"Don't you _even_ fucking start, Sam!" Dean growled.

_That got his attention_, Sam thought with a grim satisfaction. "Well? I should know, shouldn't I? About being selfish? Look, you raised me to be this way, Dean, gave me every little thing I ever wanted, were completely and totally self-sacrificing for me ever since I was _born_, so, yeah, it's wrong, but I've come to expect it from you. I _expect_ you to be there and to give me what I want, because you're my big brother and you look after me: I know you'd do anything for me and I can't even be thankful for it because it's like being thankful for fucking _oxygen_ just being there. _Now_ you want me to go cold turkey and suddenly be without you when I need you the most? Because _that_ went so fucking stellar the first time!"

_Wow_. Okay, so apparently there was a lot of shit Sam needed to get of his chest. God, he hoped Dean would remember this. Then again, maybe he hoped he wouldn't.

Dean blinked. His eyes were wet, and Sam almost laughed: his big brother was such a puss when anyone told him they loved him. That was _exactly_ how retarded he was. "Sammy…"

"_Got_ it, Dean?"

Dean felt a little caged: Sam really was the control freak in the family.

"Got it, Sammy."

Sam stood up and moved away, pretending to continue his search for the way out, but also so a wayward tear could slip down his face unnoticed.

Dean sat dumbfounded as everything Sam had told him caught up with him. Sam _loved_ him, _needed_ him, like—like _air_. Dean wouldn't ever have admitted it to himself, much less anyone else, but whatever issues he had probably stemmed from the fact that he didn't get told he was loved often enough, or, conversely, he just never believed it when it was said. But Sam had just said he needed him like _oxygen_, and he had to believe that. And, yeah, that was a nice image: you expected it to be there, and sure, you were thankful for it, it was probably the single thing you were _most_ thankful for, but you just didn't ever stop and say, _Gee, I'm glad there's air and I can breathe_. You just expected it to be there, and were all the more appreciative of it because it could be relied on 100%.

_Sam needs me like he needs oxygen. That may have been the nicest thing he's ever said to me._

Dean let a slow grin slide across his face.

_What a fag._

…

"Heaven wants one of 'em, hell wants the other. I'm no expert on the Winchesters…knew the dad—knew _of_ him, anyway—but he…he's dead now, hear tell."

"What do they want them for?" This was getting better all the time.

"I don't know, some great gig in the sky? Your guess is as good as mine—some kinda ultimate showdown, maybe."

"Which one's which?" Clare demanded. This could be important. If she had been snacking on a half-angel or something, that could explain the sharp taste. And why her hands had begun shaking faintly.

"No clue. Really, honestly, I don't know. Heard something about one of 'em getting into demon blood, but that coulda just been rumors…"

"Demon blood?" That didn't add up, even for a vampire. Here she thought she had humans figured. People were crazy.

"Yeah, like junkied out on it. Totally hooked. Gives demon-powers, or something. Allegedly. I really don't have any clue, but—but I could find out for you?" The human gazed up at her with Bambi-eyes, suddenly hopeful. Damn it, but she did hate it when they got all hopeful. Like they had a chance. It made it harder, like naming the chicken before you cut its head off.

"We'll see, honey. You just tell me all you know…"

…

_A/N: Finishing touches getting put on next chapter. Should be posted tomorrow._


	6. Money

_A/N: I've always had this niggling question burning at the back of my mind. The boys get injured a lot, right? They often lose blood, yes? Obviously it's never come up in the show, but could either of them give blood to the other, in a pinch? What would happen if they did? Would Sam's demon blood then affect Dean? My questions, my answers! _

_I did do some research regarding the medical stuff…and tried to gloss over the technical bits…but if this and the next chapter make any biologists, doctors, med students, or just plain shmart people cringe with its inaccuracies, I deeply apologize. Just do me a favor and go with it. _

_**Don't own **_**Supernatural**_** and strong language warning ahead.**_

…

MONEY

…

"Okay, Dean, I think we only got one shot, here."

"What's the matter with your arm?" Only if he spoke slowly and determinedly, did Dean manage not to slur his speech like a sleepy drunk.

"Huh?" Sam asked, as if he genuinely had just realized he had been favoring his left arm and was now clutching it absent-mindedly. "Oh. Think I hurt it in the wreck. I'm all right. Okay, so look, Dean." Sam crouched, kneeling down by the spot from which Dean hadn't yet gathered the strength to stand. "Our options out of here are through that steel door we came in, a magic secret door that I have yet to find, or digging. I have found a spoon."

Dean chuckled appreciably at the joke, but Sam continued as if he had been serious:

"It's silver, and the handle is sorta pointed, so that's something, I guess."

Dean held out his hand, palm up, expectantly.

"What?"

"Gimme."

"Silver isn't really _that_ detrimental to vampires, though, that's just legend, right?"

"Dude. I have a chance to kill a vampire with a _spoon_. No way I'm letting you take that from me. Gimme."

Sam wasn't sure whether he wanted to jump for joy that Dean was back in the game, or throttle him for being juvenile. He settled for giving him the spoon.

"Okay, so that leaves me with, I dunno, the conveniently sharp piece of wood and the switchblade. What a fucking team."

"Yeah, man, we're like the A-Team or something. Tell me, you gonna build a tank out of all this junk in here, Murdock?"

Yeah, okay, so Dean was definitely a little loopy. Maybe a lot loopy. But that was better than depressed. At least he was in a fighting mood.

"Yeah…probably not. There's also a sort of sharp piece of metal. Could maybe be used for beheading, but it's kinda small."

"Shiv. Gimme."

Sam didn't argue this time. A shiv and a spoon. Sure. His brother was totally gonna kick some serious ass.

"O_kay_. So. They can see you right when they come in, so you'll have to stand here like you're still tied up, and as soon as they come in I'll shut the door. Hopefully we can out-flank them, take them by surprise, we can take care of a few before they all come in, and…and we'll go from there. Can you stand?"

"Shhhure thing, Sam-Sammy…."

_That doesn't sound promising. _Dean's attempt to stand ending up in a dead faint was even less inspiring. _Shit, okay, new plan, Sam…_

"Dean? You all right, man? I think I'm gonna have to lock you back up there to get you to stay."

"Fuck, no," Dean protested, forcing himself to sit up. "No, I'm all right. I just…just need to rest."

"What you _need_ is blood, Dean. You're not gonna—we're not gonna—Jesus Christ." Sam paused, musing, thoughtful. "We're not getting out of here with you like this. We'll have to risk it."

"Risk what?" Dean asked warily, though admittedly too exhausted to sound half as nervous as he felt.

"Blood transfusion. I have a…a pen. And there's a half a bottle of whiskey one of the vamps left in here—"

"There's whiskey in the room and you been holding out on…." Dean paused as the first part of Sam's statement caught up with him. "Wait. What? No fucking way, Sam!"

"Dean, it's all right. I've done it before." Well, not strictly true, and he backtracked a bit. "Well, _Dad_ did it before…remember our first wendigo? I was only, like, sixteen. It got you good and we were in the woods with no cell reception and you were _dying_ Dean, so we had to, to get you out…"

"That's not even half of what I'm worried about, Sam. Case you hadn't noticed, blood's a precious commodity around here, seeing as how we're in a _vampire's_ lair—"

"Perfect! They obviously don't like the taste of my blood, maybe that'll sort of keep you safe, too. Safe from being devoured, anyway. And it'll get you strong enough so that we can get out of here."

Dean still looked suspicious. Something about this whole arrangement made him nervous, and there was really no nice way of putting it:

"Uh…Sam? Demon blood? Won't that…uh…"

Sam huffed darkly. "Taint you?" He shrugged. "I don't know, honestly. It could kill you for all I know, or not actually do anything to help." Then he laughed, as if with a sudden idea. "Who knows, it might get Michael off your ass for good."

Dean grinned, appreciating the sentiment, though he doubted it would do anything of the sort. Sure, Sam _had_ given him blood before—more than just on their first wendigo—and while admittedly he'd apparently always had the demon blood in his system from birth, never before had it been this highly concentrated.

True to form, though, that wasn't what Dean was worried about. Not much, anyway. He was only mildly worried about Sam's medical expertise—much less concerned than he should have been—seriously, a pen, a switchblade, and half a bottle of whiskey? _Seriously?_—and the fact that there were about sixteen ways this could go wrong, demon blood aside. But, no. Dean was worried about Sam:

"Sam: it's not the best plan to steal blood from the only fully-operational Winchester in the house. You'll just be weak, then, too. And then we'll both be useless."

"Dean, you can't even _stand_ now…"

"I know, Sam, but _damn_ it! What if you get something wrong—really hurt yourself, or can't stop the bleeding? And you're arm's hurt already!"

Sam was looking at him like he should be bagging groceries at the local supermarket. Dean hated that look, because it usually meant that Sam was about to whip out the patient, intelligent voice and the puppy-dog eyes, and kick his ass with his freaking Vulcan logic, and he could "Damn it, Jim!" all he wanted, but there was no escape. Resistance was futile.

"Dean. _You're_ the hurt one, remember? Like, _all over_. I'm fine. I can take a few more hits if it means getting you on your feet, dude, I promise. Just trust me."

_Ooh, that's a cheap shot, Sammy, bringing the _T_ word into it. _

"Fine. Whatever, dude."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief, but it came out as a shudder. Hard part over: now for the _really_ hard part. He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and cleaned it with a splash of whiskey, then took a look at Dean.

"Shit, man, all your veins are shredded. We may have to go in the…" _Where? Neck? No, that's in even worse shape._ "Wait a minute, I think I can get it in your wrist, here, make a fist for me."

Dean complied, but his fingers tightened around Sam's wrist like a vice until he looked up to meet his eyes:

"If I start getting _visions_," he warned, "or…move things with my mind…"

"Dean, I don't think that's how it works," Sam reassured him.

"Yeah, well, it'd better not. First spoon I bend is getting shoved up your ass."

"I'd like to see you try."

…

The hunter had been right about one thing. Demon blood, or whatever it was that was in Sam Winchester, had an…intoxicating effect. She'd drunk the most out of her coven, first to bite and last to let go, but it was just enough of a hit to tempt. Even drinking up most of the hunter informant before she let the rest of the coven devour him didn't sate her.

Maybe it was worth a trip downstairs.

No one knew how to stop this Apocalypse thing, and those who seemed to know weren't talking. So if she was going to survive, Clare knew she had to be stronger than she was. Maybe this demon blood thing was the answer. Anyway, she'd see how she did on the Demon Blood Light diet, diluted with human blood. If she could handle the spice and get enough down—not quite enough to kill him, may need more later—well, there was no telling how her powers might grow. It had turned this puny human into something worth reckoning. What might it do for her?

Definitely worth that trip downstairs.

…

"Jackpot."

"Ow. _Shit_."

"You okay, Dean? Does it hurt?"

"You've stabbed me with a fucking ballpoint pen, Sam! Yes, it hurts!"

"I mean, more than that. Does my blood, I dunno, feel weird? Burn? Hell, does it feel _tainted_?"

"No, Sam, it just hurts. Blood feels…fine," he said it with a kind of sigh, like he was relaxing almost without wanting to.

"Told ya. You're doing better already."

But you know what they say about when things seem too good to be true.

The attack might have been expected if they had been paying attention and had heard the bolt being drawn back and the door pushed open. But Dean had been so out of it and Sam so focused on his task that neither one heard anything until it was too late.

Sam had thought that he had Dean in a protected position. The blood transfusion necessitated that they sit near each other, and Dean's back was up against the beam in the middle of the room. Sam crouched around him like a lioness around her cub. One second Dean was there, lines of pain smoothing out of his face as he began to relax, the next second he was just gone. There was a crash, and Dean's body flew into a wall, in amongst a pile of junk, which crumbled around him and on him. Before Sam could see his attacker, he was flat on his back.

That was when Sam remembered that _he_ was the main target.

Dean woke groggily from being thrown against a wall, intense pain and a fear for his brother being the main motivators that kept him from just checking out. He tried sitting up, but only managed it half-way before a great pain stopped him. He opened bleary eyes to see what was wrong with him now—it couldn't possibly get any worse, could it—and groaned at what he saw.

He should have known better. Because being trapped under half a wall and a rusty old filing cabinet while his brother was being menaced by a vampire could _always_ get worse.

"Sam!" he shouted, hoarsely, because the weight of the materials on him was half-crushing his lungs. He gasped.

"Dean!" Sam shouted back, unadulterated terror in his voice. Tattoo vampire had him pinned flat on his back, straddling his legs, pinning one arm with one iron grip and holding his throat firmly but not quite dangerously with the other. The tiny tube, still stuck into his arm, was burbling blood.

Everything started to slow down for Dean, and the room began to fold in on itself. She grinned evilly, first down at Sam, then over at Dean. Dean was sure he was shouting empty threats and curses and struggling to free himself, but it was no use. She lowered her mouth to the tube and closed her lips around it, like a model's mouth around the straw in a bottle of Coke.

And she just began to drink.

She stopped once, wincing at the too-strong-liquor taste, and grinned. "Mm. You're right. Jackpot."

…

_A/N: Unfortunately, real world calls, spring break almost over, and I won't be able to get back to writing more for a while! Fear not, however, as the boys will surely figure a way out of this one (I'm taking suggestions as to how, exactly, LOL), and after some more whumpage there will be tender loving comfort all around. Stay tuned…but, like, don't hold your breath or anything. Perhaps take some time to synch up _The Wizard of Oz_ with _The Dark Side of the Moon_. It's what Dean would do._


	7. Us and Them

_A/N: Sorry about the ungodly long wait! Y'all are troopers! Hope this chapter delivers all the whumpage you could ask for, because it's straight comfort after this! I owe you the next installment within the week—it's the least I could do after that infernal cliffhanger! ;) _

_Please ignore my lack of medical knowledge of any kind, and please __**pardon the strong language (you've been warned)**__. _

…

US AND THEM

…

Dean knew all about the negative superlative.

He had watched his mother die, his father die, _his brother die_. He had been told he had to kill his own brother, he had sold his soul, had tortured other souls in hell, had been informed that an archangel was wearing him to the prom and that the devil had equally dishonorable intentions for his brother. Hell, the various times he died had to be numbering at least in the hundreds by now.

He had been _to hell_ for Chrissakes.

Got a question regarding _the worst thing ever_? Ask Dean Winchester. He could write the book.

But even hell had been merciful in some sick and twisted sense. Dean had been alone. That was horrible enough, true, but he knew from personal experience that things could _always_ get worse. In this he thanked whatever minute shred of Winchester luck that existed that his imagination was better than Alistair's. If _Sam_ had been down there with him, if Dean had had to watch them carve up his baby brother along with him, he, well, God only knew, but Dean would give himself five minutes—hell time, not real-world time—before he offered to torture those souls with a smile on his face.

So when the tattooed vampire was drinking—_draining_—his brother, while he looked on, helpless, Dean could with full knowledge and absolute honesty declare this among _the worst things ever_. Even in his hypothetical hell, he'd always had a way out: he could give in to Alistair's demands. Here, there was no such option. There was absolutely nothing he could do.

He was trapped pretty solidly from the torso down, his pelvis and knee especially firmly pinned to the floor and groaning under the weight of whatever crap was on top of him. From this angle, it looked like part of the wall had fallen away, and from how hard that bitch had tossed him into it, he wasn't at all surprised.

Actually, the only thing that was at all surprising about this whole situation was that he was still alive and conscious. But even death wasn't a true escape, and he knew it: somebody would always be waiting to throw him back into the ring.

"Sam!" He bellowed, surprised at how much power he was able to force from his half-crushed lungs. "You bitch! You get off of him right now!"

She did, but only long enough to turn and laugh at Dean. "Seriously? Or what?"

_Or what_ was right. He was reminded of Azaezel calling a similar bluff five years ago: "Let him go, or I swear to God," he'd said, and "What? What are you and _God_ gonna do?" the Yellow-Eyed Demon had answered back. Yeah. That was also a little ironic now, maybe, but then, he wouldn't have put it past Azaezel to know about his impending role as Michael's sword.

Hope stirred fleetingly in Dean's chest as Sam took advantage of her moment of distraction taunting Dean to free one arm and strike. But the hope died when she caught his wrist easily, expertly, as if she had been waiting for it, and giggled.

"Now, Dean. You'd better tell your brother to stop wriggling, or I'll—" she lifted Sam up off the floor by the throat and slammed him back into the cement with vampiric force. Dean heard a truly sickening crack, and Sam's body went still. "Do that," she finished, adding an "Oops!" along with another barf-inducing giggle.

_Shit_. Now Sam wasn't moving at all. Instant concussion, easy. Dean's only indication that Sam wasn't dead was that she bent down for another drink, the fact that dead man's blood would kill her an oddly comforting thought.

Dean's mind was racing with possible threats and promises—anything to get her to back off—but was coming up depressingly blank, when she stopped again.

"Don't be shy, boys," she said, smiling into the darkness near the door. When she spoke, three more vampires materialized out of the shadows, and Dean began to struggle again, again without success. "This one's mine, but you just be my guest and finish that one off for me: he's gettin'…too…loud."

Dean might have wondered vaguely why she trailed off there at the end, like she was drunk or sick, but he had three other problems to deal with. The front vampire was sloppy, leaning over Dean's neck before restraining him fully, and Dean armed with a shiv was as good as Dean armed with a machete in a pinch. The decapitation wasn't pretty, but it got the job done.

Front rank down, only two more to go. Easy. Dean was pretty sure that the next thing that happened was that he was kicked in the head, a short, sharp shock which itself might have put a damper on the already tits-up situation, except that it was misplaced enough not to cause instant death and also forceful enough to dislodge him slightly. This then gave him at least the feeling that he was able to fight back, though the notion of Dean taking on two vampires in his current condition was funny even to him.

They had begun finishing him off in seconds. And Dean wasn't sure he was going to last much more than a few seconds.

…

Clare was feeling great. Once you got past the burn, the taste wasn't that bad, like an expensive whisky. And she was feeling not just pumped, or fed, but powerful. Like a jolt of caffeine that granted super powers. Why, she felt strong enough to melt heaven if she had half a mind. David, Roger and Sydney had just wandered downstairs and she'd set them on the other Winchester, whom this poor sod had been trying to…

Give blood to.

She unlocked her lips from her straw and stared at the arm before her. The veins, bright red from the blood being forced through them, glared at her angrily behind the paling skin. As she focused, or tried to focus, they began moving from side to side.

Her vision was doing this weird slide. And she suddenly wasn't sure which was which and who was who, but she knew that these chumps were after her blood, out to steal her power, and she wasn't going to stand for that.

One of her morons—Sydney, looks like—was already on the ground, beheaded. The other two knelt greedily over _her_ rightly earned bloodsack, so they didn't even see it coming.

…

Sam woke to a perplexing scene, and he couldn't be sure it wasn't just the concussion talking. Never in the whole _us vs. them_ scheme did the bad guys _fight each other_. Sure, they had to have their differences, like anybody, but they would always put them aside to fight a few hunters. In a few select cases, ghosts would destroy other ghosts, take their revenge, cancel each other out. But never before had Sam witnessed actual vampire-on-vampire action. That was almost as good as vampire-on-werewolf action. Oh, man, Dean had to be loving this…

"Dean!" Sam sat up with a start, realizing that in the confusion he had actually been left unguarded, but he might as well have been guarded by four vamps for how well he was functioning. His head really hurt, and he couldn't see straight, but worse than that, he felt weak and shaky. How long had he been out? How much of him had that bitch drained?

No time for that. Winchesters tended to perform better under extreme pressure, so yanking the pen tube from his arm and urging his bloodless body to its feet was actually not as impossibly difficult as it should have been. Dean needed him, anyway. The novelty in that sentiment alone made it doubly urgent and triply terrifying.

There were at least six vampires down here now, all in some to-the-death free-for-all. At least, that was how it appeared at first, but Sam's curiosity wasn't above taking a moment's pause to deduce what exactly was going on. He ducked in next to Dean, laid a hand on his throat to feel the pulse there—another notch in the 999 Lives of Dean Winchester: _Jesus_, but his brother was a fucking titan—and dared a glance back at the fight to see what was going on.

The lead vampire, the tattooed chick with the annoying voice, _she_ was the one who was fighting all the rest of them. The one who he was pretty sure was responsible for draining him. She was clearly psychotic, fighting with no regard to defense, shrieking inanely. Part of him was grimly satisfied with the idea that his blood had done this to her, while another part of him was so beyond being horrified it was basically just numb.

They were ignored for the moment, but Sam guessed he had about three whole seconds—if they were very lucky, which they almost never were—before the fight was over. He wasted most of this in looking around for a weapon—_anything_, he would even have taken Dean's spoon at that moment—but came up empty, except that his survey of the area revealed actually an honest-to-goodness _magic secret fucking door_. It looked like a vault door, from the inside, apparent now only because part of the wall had fallen away. He had no idea where it led, admittedly, but away from the vampire brawl was good enough for him right now.

Sam would never have admitted this even to himself, but the tattooed vamp throwing Dean into the wall may have been the best thing that had happened to them in all day.

"Oh, Dean, you're not gonna believe this when you wake up," he said, shoving the last of the rubble aside with a groan and getting ready to haul Dean up over his shoulder, hoping to God he was strong enough. After all, without the demon blood, he was only an ordinary man. Not that he felt especially cleansed or anything: just weak. She'd taken the human blood along with the demon blood.

"Hnh?" Dean was stirring. Right. Titan. No keeping him down.

"Dean?" Sam almost dropped him with surprise. "Dean, you with me, man?"

"Got it…spoon, Sam-my-my…"

Okay, not so much. At least his legs gave the impression that he was walking on his own now, even if Sam was still basically totally supporting him.

The three seconds of hypothetical escape time were long up, but they remained unaccosted as they advanced on the secret door. Sam didn't bother turning to check on the sounds of the fight, because it sounded as if something was definitely still going on, but so long as that something didn't involve them getting eaten, it could go ahead and continue as far as he was concerned. He was trying not to think of how absolutely unprepared they were should they come up against anything tougher than a strong breeze, like, I dunno, a psychotic vampire?

The secret magic door was locked. Of course. There was a chance he could unlock it, if he could only find—there, on the floor. Sam eased Dean to the ground, ignoring his protests, to grab a few bits of convenient metal, a paper clip and a screwdriver, and set on the door, which was fast becoming two and three and four doors as his vision blurred again. His head was killing him, and he was sure his concussion check answers would go something like _Sam Winchester, aged seven, Palo Alto, California_. But this door he could deal with, just so long as…

"Where do you think _you're_ going, bloodsacks?"

Sam turned. The tattooed vampire stood victorious over a pile of her decapitated former coven members, breathing heavily, it appeared, from thirst rather than from exertion. She was eyeing him like Dean eyed double-bacon cheeseburgers with extra onions. The next second she was heading straight for him.

Sam's brain didn't fire off the _react!_ message to his body fast enough, so the next thing he knew she was right on top of them, and he wasn't sure whether he had time to shield Dean's body with his own, or go for a weapon, or just duck, or just turn away calmly and go back to picking the lock because she wasn't moving…

Wait. _She wasn't moving?_ Sam shook his head to clear it, but this was a bad idea, causing pain to flare up the base of his skull.

Stop. Go back. What the fuck? _Dean_ had just stabbed her in the heart with the pointed end of the spoon, slammed her to the ground, and, before she knew what hit her—probably before Dean had known he'd hit her—had grabbed a sheet of metal and slammed it down on her neck with all the precision of a guillotine.

Then Dean just dropped. Down and _out_.

What a badass.

Sam had spent most of his resentful life in his older brother's shadow, but never before had he been so glad to be Dean Winchester's kid brother.

"Seriously, dude? Don't you ever get tired of showing off?"

Dean didn't reply. Sam didn't blame him, and he hoped he'd do the right thing and _just stay down_. He was black and blue and red all over, like the beginning of a really fucked-up joke, one that even Dean's totally inappropriate sense of humor wouldn't find funny. Still, it made Sam more than a little nervous, because while _Quit_ wasn't in the Dean Winchester dictionary, _Beaten into submission _was right near the beginning.

Now the lock gave easily, and although Sam's vision continued to blur, he made it down the tunnel until it turned into a sewer, managed somehow to haul his unconscious brother out a manhole cover and over to a pay phone where, after a few wrong tries, one of them involving forgetting to insert quarters, he dialed Bobby's number. By the time the phone began ringing, Sam had forgotten who he was calling, why, or how he even knew the number.

"Yeah?"

"Bobby? Hey, it's—it's Sam. We—we need—help…"

"Sam? Sam?!"

Dropping the phone and crumpling up beside his brother in the telephone booth like a pile of dirty laundry was the last thing Sam remembered.

_A/N: Hopefully not too much of a deus ex machina, but insanity-level instant addiction seemed appropriate for a creature already so sensitive to blood. Anyway, it was either that or a knock-down-drag-out-rock-and-roll deathmatch the boys weren't up to, and I'm not a deathfic fan. Thanks for reading (and a special thanks for waiting to those of you who have been with this from the beginning), let me know what you think, and PM me if you have any particular comfort suggestions for the final three chapters: _Any Colour You Like_, _Brain Damage,_ and _Eclipse.


	8. Any Colour You Like

_A/N: My first attempt at writing Castiel (people I get, angels are crazy. Or something like that), so be gentle, but concrit is super-welcome! _

_**Usual disclaimer as to ownership of Winchesters, Singers and Angels is in effect, as is strong language warning. See Author's Note at the end of this chapter for Acknowledgments.**_

…

ANY COLOUR YOU LIKE

…

Atop a dark and brooding skyscraper, a figure watched the world of the city at night unfold beneath him. He watched the scene simultaneously with indifference and careful scrutiny, the blue eyes emotionless while silently conveying a deep and penetrating empathy. His tan trenchcoat flapped gently in the crisp breeze, as if impersonating wings, or a cape.

Dean had once referred to him as "Batman," for this practice of surveying cities from tall buildings, and Castiel believed this was an attempt at humor rather than an observation of any seriousness. In itself, this was a ridiculous statement. Certainly, he had wings, of a sort, as a bat does, but there the similarities ended. Dean was also known to refer to _himself_ as "Batman" on occasion, which only further complicated the analogy.

His cellular telephone rang. The sound was…irritating. Perhaps this was why humans always endeavored to respond to this form of communication so quickly.

"Yes?"

_Cas?_ The voice belonged to Robert Singer, which confirmed what the device had indicated before he silenced it by answering the call.

Castiel always wondered why the—admittedly few—humans he knew personally chose to refer to him by this shortened version of his name: Cas. It hardly made a difference to him either way—he was an Angel of the Lord and needed no other identification—it was just a question of why? Perhaps it was merely utilitarian, a quicker version of his name for the sake of speed and efficiency. But then why was Bobby never called "Bob," or the far more natural choice, "Rob"? And why did Dean occasionally call Sam "Sammy"? Perhaps he would ask Dean when he saw him next. Or perhaps he would ask Sam, who tended to be more patient with these sorts of questions.

"Yes," Castiel answered, and waited, patiently, for Bobby to explain the purpose of his telephone call.

_I think Sam and Dean've got themselves in a heap of trouble, and I need you to go after 'em for me. I'm tracking the call right now, but they're in Saint Paul, Minnesota._

A blink and a rustle of wind, and Castiel was in the specified city. His primitive communications device took a moment to realize it had changed locations, but compensated admirably, and Castiel replied into it: "What is it that happened? You told me Sam had found Dean, and that Dean was recuperating."

_Yeah, I probably shoulda called you in earlier, to look after 'em. Apparently, something else happened. Sam just called me—from a pay phone—didn't sound good at all. Ah, here we go: looks like a corner of 7__th__ and Madison._

"I am on my way."

_Cas—you'd better bring 'em back here. _

"This seems a wise plan. I will do that."

Another flicker and whisper, and Cas reappeared on the specified street corner. He slipped his cellular device into the pocket of his trenchcoat and narrowed his eyes, looking around.

Castiel was an Angel of the Lord. Albeit in a fallen status and in a state of rebellion, but an angel nonetheless. So when he used the Lord's name, it was only "in vain" because He didn't answer back.

"Oh my God."

…

Bobby Singer tossed the wireless receiver down on the table and bit his thumb nervously. Shit, if those boys were in trouble, he… He didn't know what he would do. It was bad enough he was stuck like this, useless, crippled, completely unable to be of any help to anyone except as a friggen librarian. God _damn_ it!

_Please let them be okay_, he prayed, admittedly to no one. _Please_. If he lost those boys, well, the only choice left to him was a bullet or rope.

A _poof!_ and rustle of wind in his living room alerted Bobby that Cas had arrived. He waited, hoping against hope, for the customary post-angel-express snarky comment from Dean, but nothing was forthcoming, so Bobby wheeled himself anxiously into the room.

If he said the sight was unwelcome it would have been the understatement of the year in a long list of unwelcome sights. He looked on those kids like his own boys, and seeing them showing up on his living room floor _covered_ in blood, lifeless, unmoving, with Cas looking on with that whole shattered-innocence angle he's got down pat—

"Fuck, Cas, what happened?"

"They were in the telephone booth like this. Unconscious." Cas began untangling the mess of limbs from each other.

"Here, here, get Dean on the couch here…" Bobby said, perfectly happy to allow the angel with super-strength to handle moving the bodies. "And put Sam in the armchair there." Bobby glided over to his desk and began fishing out the first aid supplies. When he turned back, Cas was staring at his charges with a haunted, numbed expression on his face, more unreadable than usual.

"I was under the impression that—that Dean was not as badly injured as this."

Dean did look terrible. He was covered in vampire bites of every shape and size, running the gamut of seriousness from cosmetic to fatal. Only some of them were bleeding, but it was enough, because Dean didn't look as if he had anything left _to_ bleed. His skin was chalk-white, dark rings around his eyes making him look like the unholy offspring of a raccoon and a holocaust victim. He wasn't even fully dressed, making the range of bruises in every color of the rainbow stand out angrily on his arms and chest.

"Me, too," Bobby grimaced. Then, taking in a sharp breath, he took control of his emotions and put on the down-to-business face. "Okay, get those wounds swabbed with holy water and wrapped up. See if you can bring him 'round, concussion checks."

Castiel looked mildly confused, so Bobby continued:

"Ask him his name, what month it is, what state he's in. I'll take Minnesota _or_ South Dakota, but at this rate, if he's awake and gives me North Dakota or Michigan I'll be happy." He'd meant it as a joke, but when he turned back to Sam, propped limply in the airmchair, head down, mouth open, Bobby couldn't help but be even more alarmed at his appearance than at Dean's, if that was possible:

Sam was also very pale, though not as pale as Dean, but his more darkly-tanned skin may have had something to do with that. He had fewer bites that looked less serious and less like bites than Dean's wounds. The horrifying injury was the blood that was dripping steadily out his ears and nose.

"Aw, shit." Bobby said, and suddenly he was at Sam's side, as close as he could possibly get, and he was lifting the boy's head, trying to revive him. "Sam. Sam? Samuel Winchester, you wake up this instant! Come on, Sam, you gotta wake up for me."

Nothing.

Behind him, Castiel had gotten Dean to stir a bit.

"Wh-where? Cas? The hell, dude, where—"

"I am supposed to ask you that same question," came Castiel's patient reply.

"I—how the fuck am I supposed to know?" Dean's voice sounded anything but strong, but when Bobby turned he saw Dean struggling with his body to sit up. "Where's Sam?"

Bobby decided it was time to intervene. Dean's head was fine, at least. "He's right here, Dean, he's okay: you take it easy, boy. Give him some water, Cas, and let him rest."

"But I have not yet asked—"

"Damn it, Cas, I _know_! He's fine, okay?" Bobby snapped, more out of fear for Sam, who was still out cold, than out of actual frustration with Castiel. Bobby took a little bit of holy water in his hand and splashed Sam's face with it as Castiel eased Dean back to the couch.

Sam flinched and moaned at this, but full consciousness was still elusive.

"Sam. Sam!" Bobby hoped his anxiousness didn't show too much in his voice, because that would only make Dean worry more, and Dean injured and worried would only lead to him sustaining further injuries. "Sam, wake up, son, come on," he pleaded.

Slowly, painfully, Sam's eyes opened to half-slits.

"Hey, son," Bobby said gently.

Sam made no reply, though he at least made eye contact.

"How you doin', Sam?"

Sam squinted at the world around him, but that only hurt more. He groaned and shut his eyes, but the voice was persistent. Something about concussion checks. That was important, somehow. He thought he had the answer for that one. Yes, he'd prepared it already:

"Sam…seven…teen, maybe…California," he said. God, his head hurt.

The voice didn't answer for a minute. Did he get it all wrong? Sam felt tears burning behind his closed eyes: he _hated_ getting questions wrong.

"Sam, do you know what month it is?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Okay, that's fine," the voice continued. "Can you tell me where it hurts?"

"Something like that."

Another pause.

"Do you know who I am?"

Sam opened his eyes and peered at the gray-bearded face in front of him. "Uh. Yeah, pretty much."

Bobby wheeled around to face Castiel. "Okay, Sam's gotta go to the hospital."

"He doesn't appear as badly injured as—"

"Head injury. Don't want to mess with that."

"What about Dean?"

"Too many questions with Dean, look at all those bites. You gotta stay with him. Do you know how to set broken bones?"

"Yes."

"Good, 'cause I reckon he's got a few. Keep him still and quiet until I get back. I'll have my phone with me. Can you put Sam out in the car for me?"

Dean, lying on the couch, began to stir: "Sam? Sammy? Where are—hey, let him go!"

Bobby wheeled himself over to Dean, who had begun forcing himself up off the couch, blurry eyes locked determinedly on Sam. "Easy, son, he's all right. Just takin' him to the hospital, okay, to make sure he ain't got a concussion."

"No! No, you let him go!" Dean was shouting and struggling, and it was all Bobby could do to keep him prone, even in his weakened and injured condition. Maybe Dean's brain _wasn't_ quite operating at 100%.

"Dean! Dean, it's okay!" Bobby shouted, attempting the patented John Winchester marine yell, but apparently failing because Dean, the one it usually worked best on, kept fighting him.

The only change was now it seemed to sink in that he wasn't strong enough to help his brother, and the angry-pained look on his face turned to anguished-fear, and he began begging, even as he went lax: "Please, please, leave him alone. Don't hurt him…"

Bobby laid a hand on Dean's clammy brow, and at first Dean flinched, but then reality came crashing back, and he blinked at Bobby as if for the first time. "Easy, son," Bobby encouraged. "You're brother's all right now, hear? I got him. You just need to rest for me, okay?"

"Bobby?" Dean pleaded, and when Bobby nodded, he sucked in a breath and almost sat up again. "Vampires, Bobby, they—" then, as Cas took the opportunity to zap out of the room with Sam in tow, "Don't take him away, Bobby, please." Dean was flat-out whining now, and the wounded helplessness in his voice struck some primal instinct in Bobby: the _last_ thing he _ever_ wanted to do was separate the boys, after all they'd been through. Even before the Apocalypse, before hell, before Ruby, when life had been as normal as it was ever going to be for these boys, when they were young and staying with Bobby for a few days, he wouldn't so much as take a sleeping baby Sam out of the room without letting Dean know so he could toddle along behind. But now he really didn't have any other option: Sam _had_ to go to the hospital, and Dean _couldn't_.

"I'm sorry, son, I have to," Bobby replied as gently as he could. "Don't worry, I'll look after him, okay? You just rest, and don't give Cas any trouble."

Dean nodded, staring daggers of truth-detection at Bobby, and only once satisfied did he lay back with a vulnerable sniffle.

Cas appeared in the doorway, waiting patiently.

"Trade ya," Bobby joked, wheeling past him and out the door, down the stairs-converted-to-ramp to his newly remodified van. Hydraulics lowered and raised it for ease of wheelchair access, and the gas, gears and breaks were all at handle level, so that now he was just about as mobile as he had been when he had the use of his legs. Small comforts.

"Okay, Sam, hold on," he said to the unconscious bundle strapped into the passenger seat next to him.

…

Dean woke slowly. His eyes opened. He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. Then he blinked, numbly. Only then did he let his other senses talk to him. There was faint noise in the background, like a television with the volume turned down. It was day, bright, possibly early morning. He was in a great degree of pain, but as long as he lay here, unmoving, it remained at a tolerable level. He felt like he was in a dream.

_Safe_. The thought came to him suddenly as higher brain functions kicked in. Of course. He was safe. He was at Bobby's now. The vampires couldn't get him, the vampires were dead—

_Sam_. This was the second thought that came to him, closely after the first. The last thing he remembered was Sam being taken away and—

"Do not attempt to get up," a voice, calm and comforting, ordered from the armchair by the TV.

Dean groaned. _How does he do that?_ "Cas?"

"Yes. You are injured. You must try not to move."

_I fucking _know_ that, Cas, thanks. If you're a mind-reader now, why don't you tell me what I _actually_ want to know?_ "Where's Sam?"

Castiel turned to face him for the first time. "He is in the hospital. Bobby thought it was wise to take him there, as it appeared he sustained a major concussion. I just received a telephone call from him indicating that his condition is stabilized, and Bobby is just waiting for him to wake."

Dean squinted. "I should be there with him," he groaned.

"You should be recovering yourself," Castiel corrected.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean whispered, balking at the weakness of his own voice. A closer inspection of his surroundings revealed that he was—well, wasn't that awkward—naked, his wounds treated expertly for someone who professed to be unfamiliar with human physiognomy, and his body then bundled up in what actually might have been every blanket in the house. He also discovered himself hooked up to an official hospital-looking blood IV. Where the hell did they get this? Was it worth assaulting his aching ribs to ask? It wasn't like he wasn't grateful, because a real transfusion sucked so much less than the Winchester-Macgyver kind. Dean settled for a jiggle of his head and a soft, "Whatcha watching?"

Castiel cocked his head to one side, the way he did when humans confused him, which was still often enough to be funny. "I believe you call this an _info-mercial_. Would you like to join me?"

Dean couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped him, although his chest immediately regretted it. He coughed a bit, which hurt even more, before deciding holding his breath was the best way to go. If he could have gone on like that until they healed he would have had no problems. Where was Sam and his philosophy of the excessive application of pain killers when you needed him?

"Uh, sure." With a little luck, this could prove more interesting than the insides of his eyelids, even, since it involved Cas, possibly mildly entertaining. "What's it for?" Dean didn't bother mentioning that his vision still wasn't 100% clear and he could hardly see the fifteen feet to the TV screen.

"I am under the impression that he is selling crockery."

"Crockery?"

Cas nodded. "Yes." Then, actually taking the time to look at Dean to pick up on the nonverbal signals he was sending, he added, "Plates, cups and other assorted earthenware. This is the correct word?"

"Hell if I know, dude." Dean was distantly reminded of his spoon, and wondered where it had got to in all of this. He kind of wanted to keep it as a souvenir. He'd have to check with Sam, though, first, to make sure he hadn't just dreamed up his complete and utter badassitude—I mean, wasting a vamp with a spoon?—but at least for now he was riding high on his assumed awesomeness.

There was silence for a time, broken only by the TV, the animated used-car-salesman voice muted only because the volume was so low it almost couldn't be heard. The guy sounded British, and had a very quick and slick patter, and, now that Dean's vision was clearing and he could sort of see the screen, he appeared to be selling things like plates and bowls, sets of knives and forks. All kinds of different things, and he was selling it very cheap. He told you what it was, and he said _It's ten plates, and it's this, that and the other, and eight cups and saucers, and for the lot I'm asking not thirty dollars, not twenty dollars, not even fifteen…$14.99 to you!_ And that was how he got rid of his crap. A set of china, and they were all the same color, the guy said, _You too can have them, for just two easy payments of $9.99! Any color you like, they're all blue_. This seemed to be part of the patter, part of the shtick. Maybe it was meant to be funny?

Dean was surprised to hear Cas make a strange sound, which, only after a few seconds of shock, did Dean realize might have been the closest thing to a snort of involuntary laughter the angel was ever going to produce. Dean turned his attention to the trenchcoated angel, nearly aghast.

"I find it…ironic," Cas said, by way of explanation, not looking at Dean but still staring at the screen. He paused, watching the man on the screen hawk his crock, before he continued: "The phrase _any color you like_ is interesting, metaphorically, because it denotes offering a choice where there is none."

Dean nodded warily, distantly. Part of him wanted to know who this was and what they had done with his angel, but another part of him wanted Cas to keep going. If it took weird infomercial jokes that Dean wasn't sure he was on the correct wavelength to understand to get Cas to talk, then that's what it took. This was almost approaching hilarious. Dean couldn't wait to find out how the George Foreman Grill was indicative of man's quest for the meaning of life.

"And it's also interesting that in the phrase _any color you like, they're all blue_, it's really saying just _they're all blue_," Cas continued, slowly, softly. Now it sounded like he was talking to himself. "Which, if you think about it, relates very much to light and dark, sun and moon, good and evil, God and the Devil."

_Okay…what?_

"You make your choice, but it's always blue," Cas concluded.

_Okay. When did this stop being funny?_

The salesman's patter claimed the room again as both fell silent. Cas pondered, and Dean just didn't want to say anything. Dean suddenly felt as if even a phone call from Bobby saying that Sam was awake and coherent wouldn't help his current mood. Because even the angel who was supposed to be pulling for him didn't seem to think he had much of a choice in this whole fucking end-of-the-world thing.

"Um. Cas?" Dean rasped. "Mind if you shut it off? I'm…gonna try and get some shut-eye."

Castiel blinked, turned to meet Dean's gaze. He got that confused wounded puppy look, like he knew something he said had upset Dean, only he wasn't sure what, why, or how.

"Yes. I'm…sorry."

_Better late than never._

"No problem, man. Wake me if we hear anything about Sam, 'kay?"

…

_A/N: I realized that if this "episode" of mine is going to take place in canon, it has to happen sometime before/around the actual canon episode 5 x 16 _Dark Side of the Moon._ This means I have to deal with Dean being a fussboots about the end of the world resting on his shoulders, so the weird conversation with Cas begins to introduce Dean to the despair he shows in later episodes. I don't like it much, though, so no more of it! ;) __Virtually all of the end dialogue is taken from an interview with __**Roger Waters**__ about the DSOTM song "Any Colour You Like."_

_Also a special thanks to __**my cousin**__ whose concussion-induced one-liners I stole and gave to Sam for his concussion here. Brainiacs definitely make the most amusing concussion victims because it is hilarious to see how the mighty have fallen (which I can freely joke about because my cousin turned out all right in the end, okay? And so will Sammy, I promise!)._

_Also a nod to __**babyreaper**__ whose enthusiastic review encouraged me to make Dean more proud of his spoon vampicide than he otherwise would have been. _


	9. Brain Damage

_**Updated A/N: Okay, had to add a bit to the end of this chapter. Sorry for making y'all re-read it. I was happily continuing along the next chapter ("Eclipse") and realized that this bit I wrote belonged in **_**this**_** chapter. That's I guess the trick to the serial story that I haven't gotten he knack of yet. Whups. Anyway, thanks for bearing with me. Think of it as a half-update. **_

_A/N: Okay, so I'm ill, and I wanted to inflict the same on our Dean. That's totally fair, right? No? Well, luckily, our Sam is there to look after him—but, oh, snap! That's right! They've been separated! And we know from experience that nothing good can come of that…_

_**Warning: Usual for rough, gratuitous, strong language. **_

…

BRAIN DAMAGE

…

The last thing Sam Winchester wanted to do was wake up. The second he knew it was happening he tried to reverse it, attempting against his body's wishes to slip back into painless oblivion. But something in the realm of consciousness was important. There was some reason he needed to be awake, and this nagging thought, and trying to remember what it was exactly, brought him to full wakefulness without meaning to—

"Dean!"

Sam regretted the outburst—and the accompanying movement—and even waking up at all—immediately. His head was in twelve kinds of agony, six of which left him sure his skull was going to crack in half, and the other half dozen which made him wish it would already. As the landslide of pain began clearing away, one boulder at a time, he became more aware of himself: of the smell of disinfectant, of the annoying background beeping of machines, of the intrusion of needles and tubes. Hospital. Yuck.

Someone was helping to clear away the boulders: "Sam? Sam, you with me, son? Easy, boy, just breathe through it, you're all right."

"Bobby?" Sam didn't even care that his voice sounded whiney. He tried coaxing his eyes open, but shut them immediately. That was stupid. It was too bright. It was too loud.

"Hey, kiddo, easy," Bobby was saying, with surprising gentleness for such a grumpy old timer. "Just rest. You're in the hospital now. Got a crack on your dome, but you're okay now. Go back to sleep."

_Yeah, right,_ Sam thought. _You think I'm crazy enough to suffer through all this shit forcing myself awake just to go back to sleep again without pumping you for intel? You know me better than that, Bobby._

Now, wait. What was it he wanted to know again?...

"Dean!" The second outburst wasn't as violent as the first, but his eyes snapped open, causing him to squint like a pensioner. "Bobby, Dean—the vampires—"

"Well, you're certainly right," said a strange voice off to Sam's left before Bobby could answer. "Boy _did_ hit his head pretty hard." Sam forced himself to look at this newcomer: _Shit. Doctor. That meant…that meant something._

He looked to Bobby, a little desperately. Bobby flashed him an intense glare which, if it didn't say _Let me do the talking_, it didn't say anything. Sam was about to nod before he thought better of it and just relaxed, resigned rather than comfortable.

Sam used every fiber of his being to encourage his brain to focus. He had to listen to what Bobby _wasn't_ saying to get the answers to which insurance card name he was meant to use, what the story was, how he'd ended up here, and answer all the doctor's questions correctly so he could get out of here as quickly as possible and go see Dean, who Sam was becoming increasingly sure _wasn't_ in the hospital, where he should be.

Violence was quickly becoming his only option when the doctor finally decided he could leave them in peace as he continued his rounds. Sam turned on Bobby with as much venom as he could muster:

"Where the fuck is Dean?"

"Hold your horses, boy, and watch your fucking mouth," Bobby hissed.

"He was—Bobby, Dean is _much_ worse off than me, you saw!—they'd had him for _two weeks!_ I can handle a…friggen concussion! Dean could be dying! Why the hell isn't he in the bed next to me?"

Bobby laid his hand on Sam's arm heavily. "Dean is _all right_, now, okay? He's at the house. Cas is looking after him. I just talked to Cas, and Dean's resting. He's fine, okay?" Bobby spoke slowly and deliberately, like he was speaking to six-year-old Sam who was having a tantrum.

God, but Sam _hated_ that voice.

He'd show Bobby a tantrum: "I want to see him. _Now_. I want to go home."

"No can do, son. You're staying right there til the MRI and CAT-scan results get back. If you're a good boy and we make sure your brain isn't bleeding, doc may let you out by suppertime."

There was a finality in Bobby's no-nonsense voice that crushed Sam's spirit a little. It was the bad-cop-John-Winchester voice that made him desperate for good-cop-Dean.

"I'll run away," he attempted, petulantly. Yeah, okay, so maybe his brain wasn't fully functional. "I'll—" he glanced out the window at the bright green lawn that was so shiny it hurt his eyes. As if in a concerted effort to thwart his plan, he spotted a large white sign that declared PLEASE KEEP OFF THE GRASS. Sam huffed.

"Like hell you will, Samuel Winchester. Just sit there and tell me what happened." Sam looked at him like a caged animal, so Bobby adjusted his voice to a gentler register and continued: "Tell me what you remember. The real story, not the bull we gave the doc. If you can remember well enough I'll try and get you outta here early. Deal?"

Sam sniffled. "Yeah, okay," he said, remembering not to nod. "Uh. Last thing I remember—Dean killing that vampire with a spoon."

Bobby's face was the picture of skepticism. "You really _did_ hit your head—"

"No, I'm serious, Bobby! It was awesome!" Sam didn't even care about the spike of pain that shot along his corpus callosum as he raised his head, nor did he find it odd that he had roughly the intellectual capability of a thirteen-year-old. "I mean, I guess he didn't kill her, really, but you know, he like, stabbed her in the heart, immobilized her with it, so then he could chop her head off with this random sheet of metal. Might even have been a cookie tray. Dean was really angry."

Sam looked up, satisfied, but Bobby still looked suspicious—if now bemused instead of concerned. "Uh. Okay. What about before that?"

"Oh." Sam's face fell a little at the memory. This part wasn't nearly as cool. "The vampires. They, uh. Let's just say that vampires and demon—uh, _my_ blood, they don't mix so good. She sorta went apeshit, you know? Like, instant pants-on-head-crazy addiction. To me. To my blood. Started killing all the rest of her coven."

Bobby nodded, eyes wide. After a moment of considering, "And this the bitch Dean took down with Martha Stewart's kitchen line?"

Sam pouted. "I'm _serious_, Bobby!"

"Hey, you're the one with the concussion. I'm just reserving judgment."

…

Dean was going to get worse before he got better. Castiel sensed this at a depressingly early juncture, yet felt powerless to stop it. It was the Babylonians defeating the Israelites all over again, the time when he wasn't permitted to interfere. Divine judgment or not, he had felt sorry for them. But that was when he had been a good soldier.

Now, it mattered little what he was or was not allowed to do: everything hinged on what he could or could not do.

Which, now, seemed very little.

You needed a soul rescued from the Pit? Castiel was your angel. An army of demons contended with? Castiel. The Lord's anointed defended against infidel hordes? Cas.

Humans were such fragile creatures. Albeit they were adaptive, clever, unique, and irrepressible, but even the Winchesters, whom Castiel had observed were the peak of human physicality, seemed precariously frail when you got down to it. And Castiel was ill-versed in the minute mechanisms of God's Greatest Creation.

He understood superficial injuries: breaks and wounds. These he could _see_. For example, Dean had a grand total of two broken ribs, a broken arm, a bruised pelvis and a fractured shin, in addition to six bite-wounds, two of which were ragged enough to require extensive stitching. This was ignoring the extensive bruising that covered his body, as well as minor cuts, and a various joints which had to be popped into place.

Sam had once endeavored to explain, as best he could, about things called bacteria and antibodies and how they worked in the human body, but Castiel had been unable to grasp the basic concept of how a single living being could be made up of many individual microscopic agents that behaved in apparent disunity. Sam hadn't liked it when he analogized this as a Type, a picture of the Body of Heaven, of which God was the head and his Creation, angels and men, were parts of the body, and these demons were diseases which attempted to infect the body. Castiel, in his turn, had become uncomfortable when Sam had asserted that an acute mental illness must be the chief affliction of this body of Heaven, and there the conversation had come to an awkward conclusion.

The upshot of this being that Castiel had no earthly—much less heavenly—idea why his charge now appeared to be wasting away before his very eyes. After his moment of consciousness in the early morning, Dean grew consistently worse: he became very warm, and then restless, his skin covered in a layer of bright sweat, yet he complained of severe chill. He asked for water only once, which Castiel helped him drink, but which he expelled almost immediately. Dean did not or could not speak with any clarity, but the basic idea of what little speech he could produce seemed to be that he wanted, chiefly, to be left alone, interspersed with pleas for the comfort of his brother. Castiel's assurances that Sam could not be here, as he was in the hospital, were not well received.

Around midday, Castiel produced his telephone from a pocket and, as an afterthought, moved into the next room so as to not wake Dean, who rested fitfully.

"Bobby, we have a problem."

_Cas? What's up? Dean okay?_

In the background, Castiel heard a commotion, and he distinctly detected Sam's voice demanding something—probably, if Cas knew the Winchesters—information regarding his brother. He heard muffled sounds of Bobby contriving falsehoods interspersed with colorful expletives, and then the background noise grew softer as, Castiel guessed, Bobby moved into a different room.

—_Sorry, Cas. What's going on? _

"It's Dean. He is…not well."

_Yeah, I kinda remember that from before I left._

Castiel did not think it was possible to hate anything except evil. But he _strongly disliked_ sarcasm.

"He has grown worse since your departure. This morning he woke and was alert, but now it appears he has developed a…fever. His temperature is elevated."

_Can you give me a number?_

Castiel drew a blank. "Uh…"

_Temperature._

"I do not know what you mean by—"

_Yeah, never mind. _A pause, as Bobby sighed deeply. _Look, I can't leave here. If I do, Sam will know Dean's not all right, and have the freak out of the century. So what I need you to do is check all his wounds again. If any of 'em look really red or swollen, flush 'em with warm water and disinfectant. And give him as many antibiotics as you can—two every four hours. They're in the packets I left on the table, can't miss 'em. Got it?_

"Uh. Yes. I will keep you updated as to his condition."

_Sam's ready to blow this popsicle stand. I'm satisfied he ain't too much worse for wear, but we're waiting for a few tests just to make sure. Should be home by seven or eight if all goes well._

Castiel flooded with relief. "That would be…appreciated."

_Well, we'll see. Gotta go. Call me if he gets any worse._

There was a click, and a dead tone. Castiel closed his telephone and placed it in his pocket once again.

Now tasked, Castiel set to work.

…

Dean was, primarily, very tired. He knew he was beat, his body knew it was in pieces, and all he wanted to do was lie there until it all went away. Preferably unconscious for most of it, although knowing Cas was there watching over—read: _watching_—him constantly made it difficult to let his guard down. He appreciated what the guy did, really, Dean just couldn't think how Cas could possibly be any more creepy about it.

But he was absolutely unable to rest comfortably. That could have been the pain—probably _was_ the pain, mainly—and by the time he wore his nerves down enough to _ask_ for pain killers and water—_water_, I mean, really, didn't they give the angels at least a crash course on human anatomy before they sent them to the ground?—he was too far gone under a new oppression to say anything coherently.

It was probably infection. The inside of his right arm felt particularly itchy when he'd first woke up, but it was too late now. When he next woke, he was sweltering, he couldn't move even if he'd wanted to, and a blinding pain blanketed him entirely instead of having the decency to only affect a few parts. He felt a prisoner in his own body. He still possessed cognitive thought, sort of, but he couldn't translate the ideas into anything Cas could understand.

And the fog of pain and confusion kept spreading, coming always closer, first well outside, on the lawn, then inside the hallway, and then in his damn head right on top of him. He remembered puking at one, maybe two points, and Cas taking care of him, cleaning him up, checking the wounds, trying to get him to drink water and take pills. Poor dumb bastard, but Dean did appreciate him trying. It was at least better than stressing out Bobby, whom Dean didn't like asking anything from these days.

He was completely unconcerned, of course. He couldn't die even if he wanted to (which he seriously considered on more than one occasion). The angels would always just bring him back. And he was a Winchester for fuck's sake! He just needed to grab some rack time for a few days, pop a few pills and get back in the game. No problem. Nothing he didn't do for about three years when he was on his own a lot. He hadn't even had a geeky angel with him then.

So what the hell was with this unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach? And his head was killing him. Both were more irritating than they should have been, and it wasn't just the infection and general misery talking. He just could not stop thinking about how he couldn't see a way out of this one. Had Cas been right in his infomercial-induced philosophic rant? Was there really any choice at all? In anything? Dean knew he shouldn't be tackling these thoughts alone, especially not in his current condition, but he couldn't help himself. His head felt about ready to explode with dark foreboding when John Winchester's marine voice, of all things, was what Dean's fevered brain came up with to bark him to sleep: _Sleep it off, boy. It'll be better when you wake up._

…

"…So aside from an apparently extremely vivid hallucination, or nightmare, he seems to be doing well, alert and oriented…"

"So I can go home now?" Sam interrupted. He hated the way doctors spoke about you in the third person as if you weren't even there, but this was just a drop in the ocean of his general annoyance. The hospital staff thought he was nuts on account of a few outbursts he couldn't really help as he regained consciousness, Bobby didn't really believe his story (especially about the spoon thing), everyone was treating him like a thirteen-year-old, and his head and most of his body was sore. None of this was to mention the thing that was well and truly pissing him off the most: that his brother was _very_ messed up—like Bobby thought he hadn't overheard most of the alarming phone conversation with Cas—and home alone, not in the hospital where he should be, not with _Sam_, where he should be. Well, admittedly, he had Cas with him, but really? _Really,_ really? Castiel was _so_ not a nurse. And as much as Dean made fun of him for it, hells yes, Sam _was_ a nurse, and a damn fine one, if not quite his brother's type…

_And, okay, you're still thinking like a thirteen-year-old, Sam, snap out of it. _

The doctor was frowning. "Well, I'd like it if you stayed the night for further observation, but there's nothing physically wrong with you now, so…"

"Just bring the papers, Doc," Sam was surprised to hear Bobby say. He gaped at him as the doctor huffed and puffed but left the room to send a nurse for papers.

"You're letting me out?"

Now Bobby looked guilty. "I think Dean's priority one, now. I think you of all people can afford a little brain damage. Maybe bring you down to normal level."

Sam emitted a snorting laugh. He guessed that was a compliment, sort of. It had been a while since anyone had made college-boy remarks about him.

"Anyway, I'm not about to sit here babysitting you when you're in one of these pig-headed-stubborn-Winchester-modes. If I had my way I'd make the angel look after you both."

Before Sam could reply, a nurse entered with a clipboard and a pen. Bobby took it from her before she had a chance to even offer it to Sam, but instead of protesting, Sam just huffed and let it go. He was getting out of here, finally, and back to looking after his overly-macho-retard of a brother, where he wanted to be, and making a fuss about who got to fill in his paperwork wasn't going to help his case.

When he was finished: "Okay, an orderly will be in here shortly to take you to your car," the nurse said cheerfully as she took the paperwork back and exited.

"Bobby," Sam tried, tentatively.

"Yeah?"

"I-is Dean okay?" Trying not to piss him off, knowing he was treading thin ice already. Sam wasn't even planning on fighting the wheelchair that hospitals often insisted on wheeling you out to your car in. "Really?"

Bobby gave him a straight look for the first time that day. "No, I don't think so."

Sam's attempt not to freak out as his suspicions were confirmed was valiant: _What?_ He wanted to scream._ Why didn't you tell me? Why aren't you there with him? Why didn't you let me go sooner?_ "Bobby, what—" pause, control the anger, the potential fear, "what's wrong?"

Bobby sighed, ran a hand over his face, a tick Dean had picked up recently, or one Bobby had picked up from Dean, for when things were _bad_ and you had to physically wipe the open terror from your face.

"I'm guessing infection. Cas has been looking after him, but he—"

"He doesn't know what to do," Sam snapped, intending by way of this to excuse Castiel from blame—he was an angel, and caring for ill humans by mundane means wasn't in his job description, and no one should fault him for it—but it came out only accusing. Like practically everything he said these days.

"Yeah, well, we do, and that's why we're heading back. We'll pick up your prescriptions on the way, and I got some extra antibiotics at home. You sharin' your pain meds?"

"Of course. And the anti-inflammatory meds, or whatever they got me on. I don't need them as much as he does."

"Yeah, well, we'll see. Cas was able to jack some hospital equipment and give him a real transfusion, so him coasting on fumes ain't a problem anymore if it took…"

"Oh, fuck."

"What?"

But Sam didn't have a chance to tell Bobby, as at that moment a large, burly orderly with a gleaming wheelchair and a kind smile entered the room to help Sam out to the van. Sam could only sit there, silently fuming and shaking as a horrible thought stole over him. What if this was his fault? More than usual, anyway.

It seemed like an eternity, but when they were safely in the van he turned to Bobby, shellshocked:

"Bobby, I—oh, my God, Bobby, I think I—"

"What, Sam? Spit it out, already!"

"I gave him some of _my_ blood, Bobby."

"What?"

"A blood transfusion. With a ballpoint pen. I've done it before, and he was dying, he needed it, and it went well I thought, but…but not with my…the demon blood. It might have—it probably did—it messed with him somehow. Oh, God, Bobby, what if I've made him sick?"

It had been a long time since Bobby had head Sam sound so vulnerable. "Now, hold your horses, son. There's no knowing what's wrong with your brother 'til we get there. So just relax, hear? Don't go blaming yourself, you did what you had to at the time. Quit yer worryin'."

Sam bit his lip and nodded as Bobby pulled out of the hospital parking lot. Like hell he wasn't going to worry. Dean didn't get infections easily: God knew you had to have a Herculean immune system to play with dead bodies, fight monsters that made rabid dogs look like kittens, and eat at cheap diners on a regular basis. No, it wasn't infection.

Par for the course, Sam trying to help had only made things worse. If he thought he had wanted to see his brother before, now he just straight-up _needed_ to.

After driving a few miles in silence, Bobby glanced sidelong at Sam. The boy was going to give himself an aneurism with fretting before they even got home. Bobby couldn't say he wasn't worried, too, but Sam had to calm down. He didn't need two Winchesters out of commission.

"So…a blood transfusion, huh? With a ballpoint pen."

"I've done it before, Bobby," Sam snapped back, moodily.

"That's almost as good as the spoon story."

Sam looked at him, ready to glare daggers into the old man, but Bobby's face was defended by a fond grin, and Sam couldn't bear to do it to him. Instead he took the sentiment for what it was, a gentle tease, let the anger go, and allowed himself a small smile.

Bobby released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding:

"Idgit."

…

_**Updated A/N: And, wow, excessive codependence for the win! Guilty as charged, but I do love needy Winchesters! **_

_**Thanks to BranchSuper for the "Castiel is so not a nurse" line! See what happens when you leave lovely, amusing reviews? Haha, that's right, I steal your material! ;)**_

…

_A/N: Gah! More Dean (_update: and Sam_) angst! I swear it crept in on accident, I hate it as much as I know y'all do! The promised whumpage, schmoop, and all manner of cuddly brotherly love will be delivered in the very next chapter, as well as a (arguably un)satisfying end to this adventure! Stay tuned!_


	10. Eclipse

_A/N: __**IMPORTANT UPDATE**__: Make sure __**to go back**__, if you haven't already, and __**re-read Chapter 9,**__**Brain Damage**__, which I tacked a short scene onto. That'll lead you straight back here, and everything will begin to make sense!_

_**Warnings: Rough language, as well as unnecessary amounts of schmoop, fluff, sap and general brotherly love ahead! No Wincest though.**_

...

ECLIPSE

...

A decidedly human touch brought Dean around. That was funny in and of itself, that he could recognize a human by touch alone—that such a concept existed—but he was deadly serious and overwhelmingly relieved because as he drug himself from the depths of unconsciousness he knew for certain that, after such a long time, here, _this_, this wasn't a vampire, and it wasn't an angel. It was a human. The normality of it was disturbingly calming.

Dean didn't really want to be awake, but the hand on his brow, stroking his face with a thumb moving in totally uncool, unacceptably touchy-feely soothing circles, seemed to be insisting on it. He groaned in protest, but opened his eyes out of curiosity more than anything, and practically fainted in relief at what he saw:

_Sam?_

Dean didn't actually have to ask out loud. Of course he would see Sam. Of course he was here, kneeling desperately beside the couch with that worried, pinched face of his, trying himself not to look as weak and sick as he probably felt, asking how Dean was doing, practically lifting him up and hugging him. A walking, talking, chick-flick moment.

"S-Sam-my?"

Dean tried, for no reason, to move his right arm—his good one—in relative terms, because while this one wasn't broken, the wound in the crook of his elbow was bad enough that he was having trouble making a fist—towards his brother, and struggled with a cough that wracked his chest. He was genuinely afraid his body was going to rattle apart.

"Hey," Sam said with a gentle smile. "How you feelin', bro?"

"I—" Dean coughed, choked a bit. Tasted blood. "I f-feel…"

That was all he got out before his body rebelled, forcing him from his bed of solace into the throes of purging. Sam, who admittedly caught on faster than Castiel had done, was only fast enough to help lift him and tip his head over the side of the couch, although a container of some sort quickly entered his line of vision and quickly began filling up with bright red blood.

Dean felt like crap.

He vomited so long and so steadily—it must have looked like a demon exiting a host, only with a stream of blood instead of black smoke—that he forgot or was unable to breathe for long enough that his vision began to go dark. As he came to, he felt his brother's hand still supporting his head, taking the strain off his tattered neck muscles, while another hand was on his shoulder, helping his body tip, and this hand was now rubbing up and down his back, telling him over and over just to get it all out, better out than in, that it was okay and he was here with him and would look after him. Dean gave a weak cough and moaned rather pathetically as the pain from vomiting caught up with him: injured muscles strained, stitches pulled, broken bones shifted. An indication of the colossal amount of agony he was in was that he was well past the stage of not wanting Sam to see him like this. Throwing up on an Angel of the Lord, all over another hunter's sofa, where he'd lain, naked and bleeding, too weak to even keep his eyes open, had quickly taught Dean that there were more mortifying experiences in life than needing your little brother to hold your head up while you puked your brains out.

When Dean felt he was done, he tried to settle back himself, raising an arm to wipe the blood from his lips. But apparently Sammy was going to have none of this as Dean felt a warm, wet cloth was suddenly wiping at his face, wiping his hand, wiping at the couch. Dean was being told to rinse and spit, and then drink and swallow, as water trickled past his lips. He really didn't want to puke again, but rather than try fighting the puppy-dog-eyes he knew were glaring at him, he managed a few sips before Sam laid him back against the pillows. Dean knew by the movement just beside his head that Sam knelt there, cleaning his vomit. Scrubbing bodily fluids out of the carpet. If that wasn't love, Dean wasn't sure what was.

And God, how he hated it.

As Dean lay there, half-conscious and helpless from pain and weariness, he pricked up his ears, trying to listen to the conversation through the thick fog of fever and a laundry list of other things that sucked about his life right now:

"You say he ingested some of your blood—"

"No, Cas, he didn't _ingest_ it. Just a regular transfusion—well, okay, the _MacGyver_ version—but he didn't _drink_ my blood, no."

"Well, it appears his body is attempting to purge it from his system. The vessel of Michael will automatically reject any impurities." There was a hint of emotion in the angel's voice that Dean couldn't quite place.

"Yeah, checked all the wounds, they're clean," Bobby assured them. "This ain't a normal fever, or ain't a normal infection. Try to give him some antibiotics, just in case, I guess…"

"We should…" Cas began, and then stopped. Suddenly, Dean recognized the emotion in his voice: nervousness. "We should get him to the panic room."

Okay, and distrust.

Dean flinched, ever so slightly, in fear: for fuck's sake, he wasn't going through _withdrawals_…

"No."

It took Dean a moment to realize that the ice-cold growl had come from Sam, who was still beside him, the only one close enough to feel him tense. Dean guessed he must have also made some sort of pathetic simpering noise only loud enough for his brother to hear, because Sam laid a comforting hand on his chest, miraculously, on the only part of his body that didn't hurt, which said _Don't worry, bro, I got you_ as clearly as if it could speak.

"Sam, your brother is—"

"_No_, Cas, and _don't_ say it again. For fuck's sake, my brother isn't going through _withdrawals_, he's _sick_. He's staying right here, where it's comfortable, where I can look after him."

_Wayta go, Sammy,_ Dean thought, almost grinning in spite of himself, his body going lax under Sam's defense. Then, with a melancholy that was actually mainly pride: _That's only the, what, eighteenth time you've had to save my ass in the past two days?_

Either the room went quiet, everyone left, or Dean passed out at that moment, because the next thing he recognized was silence, except for Sam's voice, prominent, urging him awake.

"Come on, Dean, open your eyes. Got something here for you…"

Dean obeyed and opened his eyes, but couldn't seem to do much else besides stare at the ceiling. He waited there, unmoving, unthinking, until Sam pushed himself into Dean's field of vision. Dean blinked at him owlishly, blankly, for a minute, waiting for the world to explain itself.

Nothing was forthcoming.

"Dean? You with me, man? Jesus Christ, you're burning up."

The touch of knuckles to the side of his head did more to rouse Dean than anything. It took a massive effort, but he jiggled his head in Sam's direction, managing a raspy, "Yeah." Then, as a few struggling neurons connected: "You okay?"

Sam ignored the question. "Got some pills to give you here. Think you can keep 'em down for me?" he asked gently. He began nudging them past Dean's lips, a glass of water ready in his other hand.

At the last moment Dean realized what was happening and flinched away, hardly able to move but taking full advantage of what little he could manage. "Uhng," he said, eloquently. He shook his head, and pressed his lips together.

"Come on, Dean, you've got to."

"_Hurts_, Sammy."

Dean didn't miss Sam's eyes going wide in unadulterated alarm at Dean's admission of pain, though he quickly recovered and gave him his signature pout: "I know, Dean. These'll help. Help you feel better."

Dean managed to shake his head this time: "Just puke 'em up again," he moaned, and closed his eyes.

"Come _on_, Dean!" Sam whined. The bitching was hovering dangerously near seven, maybe eight, but Sam wasn't enough of a bastard to take advantage of him while he was sick. "_Please_, man."

Or was he? Dean didn't dare look at him, in case the puppy-dog eyes lay in waiting.

"Dean, look, you've got to give it a try. Just trust me, man. I'll give 'em to you in some warm milk, you think you can keep that down? I'll even throw some of Bobby's secret Chivas Regal stash into the mix if—"

"Oh, God," Dean moaned, his stomach flipping. Fuck, how sick _was_ he if expensive scotch didn't appeal to him?

"Okay, okay, maybe not," Sam corrected, backpedaling, laying his hand briefly on Dean's stomach as if this would prevent it from revolting again. "How about some ginger ale? I can send someone to the store for some Canada Dry. How does that sound?"

That actually sounded okay, and Dean made the mistake of opening his eyes. Sam had turned the puppy-dog eyes up to fucking eleven, and Dean found himself giving it up faster than a cheap hooker: "Fine, okay," he whispered. "I take the pills, you get me ginger ale." He was too sick and tried to argue.

Sam grinned widely, relieved. "Deal."

Dean didn't even bother attempting to raise his arms or head, instead letting Sam steer his body through swallowing the pharmaceutical cocktail. He spent the next few minutes bargaining with his stomach about accepting the offering, _willing_ it to stay down while his head was swimming in about twelve different directions at once. Somewhere in the background, he heard Sam getting bossy with the angel—

"…Look, Cas, I don't care where you get it from, or how you get it, but go buy Dean some ginger ale. It's called Canada Dry, and it's the soda with the green label. Here's some cash, but honestly I don't care if you beg, borrow or steal some so long as it gets here, okay?..."

—which, if he'd been in any slightly better condition, would have been hilarious. As Dean did have a pulse, it was still pretty funny.

The ginger ale, when it came—from a Wal Mart in Springfield, Illinois, randomly, but as the entire trip only took Castiel about fifteen minutes via angel express, no one complained more than they laughed—soothed his stomach enough so that when he puked again, as was inevitable, most of the pills appeared to have been at least half dissolved and into his system enough that Dean dared to feel slightly better. Sam was holding him upright throughout this spell of vomiting, and after the rinse and spit, he pressed more pills on him, and this time a sip of milk, too, and then some more ginger ale, and only then did he let him down to sleep. But this regimen seemed to do the trick, or else he was just done puking, because now he got to deal with other far more fun problems.

Dean was entirely too exhausted to deal with the whole freezing one second and practically boiling the next, but Michael's vessel seemed pretty intent on scrubbing itself clean, and sweats and shakes seemed to be the way it was going. Luckily, Sam was there to create a nest around him with what honestly might have been every blanket in the house. He was of course too weak even to push the blankets away from his body when he grew warm, but Sam stood readily by to destroy the nest again when he saw Dean struggling for air.

The world around Dean spun constantly, like he was riding out a storm in a rowboat in slow-motion. It helped a bit when he opened his eyes, but he was too tired to keep them open for long. Hovering nursemaid Sammy appeared in doubles, while Bobby and Castiel were like ghosts flitting in the background. Dean actually hallucinated a few times—reapers, demons, and vampires (_oh, my!_) mainly—but Sam alternately shushed him and offered to protect him, depending on how bad the vision was. While Dean never got an exact number, he felt sure his fever alone was probably high enough to do this to him.

A fever that came from demon blood. From Sam's blood.

"Sam!" Dean screamed, terror and concern for those in the house lending him strength he didn't have at a terrible interest rate. There was vampire _right here_. God, how did these bastards keep finding him? Maybe they weren't after him anymore? Were they after Sam?

"You keep your greedy claws off my brother, you understand?" he shrieked, forcing himself up until he was almost sitting, which was only slightly more threatening than him lying flat on his back.

"Why don't you just give it up?" it asked tiredly, teeth gleaming as it settled itself on top of him, forcing him back, pinning him to the couch with depressing ease. "It will be over quickly for him, and it will solve this whole Apocalypse thing. It isn't as if he doesn't deserve death, right?"

"Fuck you!" Dean spat. "That's my _brother_ you're talking about, you bloodsucking bastard!"

"You know the alternative, Dean," it leered. "Sam possessed by Lucifer, destroying the world? You, forced to say yes to Michael to combat him and save a world hardly worth saving." What was _with_ bad guys and their aversion to _doing_ anything in favor of just _saying_ shit? What the hell kind of kick did they get out of monologuing, anyway? "Tell me how this isn't better."

"You want him, you'll have to go through _me_ first!" And with that declaration, Dean pulled some newfound strength out of his ass and launched himself at the vampire, forcing them both from the couch. He landed a solid punch and was just looking around for anything he could use as a weapon as it scrabbled to grab his wrists and—

"Whoa, Dean! Dean, it's _me_, holy shit! Come back, man!"

The body pinned under him was no longer attached to the toothy maw of a vampire. His vision cleared and the vampire shifted and melted until it looked like a blurry Sam. This thing wasn't trying to _eat_ his little brother—it _was_ his little brother!

Dean wobbled, falling back away from Sam. Time to pay the piper for _that_ little dance number. His vision faded steadily, going dark, as pain became the sensation of the hour, blocking out his perception of anything else. He barely felt what might have been Sam's limbs wrapped around him, holding him upright so he wouldn't topple over. Although, honestly, if it had been a vampire grasping him, Dean couldn't have done a damn thing about it.

Then Dean might have puked again, he might have just been sobbing, he might even have lost control of his bladder, and he wasn't sure he cared about any of the above. If he and his pride met on a street corner right now they wouldn't have recognized each other. He couldn't even summon the energy to be offended at Sam's babying of him as he slowly came to. A gasp and a flinch were all he could manage as Sam pulled him painfully close before heaving him back to the couch:

"Whoa, whoa, easy, man, it's okay. It's just me, Dean. It's Sam, don't fight me. Just relax, I gotcha."

"C-can't see, Sammy…" Dean whispered, wanting to be afraid at this development but not strong enough to care.

"That's 'cause your eyes are closed, moron. Okay, one, two, three—"

And _holy shit!_ okay now he could see, but nothing but a killer bright white light that exploded somewhere in his skull as Sam lifted him back to the couch. He definitely tasted vomit in his mouth this time, and the tears mingled with the rivers of sweat that poured off him. He couldn't remember ever feeling this level of agony. Or this level of pathetic, for that matter. Maybe post-Alistair. Maybe.

"I-is it always this bad—f-for you?" Dean rasped, surprised he was able to speak. He was shivering now, teeth chattering, as Sam worked to cocoon him in the blankets which lay ready, already sticky from his sweat. "When you're—in the panic room."

Sam didn't answer, but Dean felt him shrug, which meant the answer was the one he didn't want to hear and Sam didn't want to say: _No…it's worse._

That was when Dean knew that he had been the biggest dick in the entire history of dickish brothers. He should have been there with Sam, the whole time, as he rode out his addiction, as he struggled to come clean, damn the consequences and the fact that Sam was practically rabid when he was jonesing. Instead he had left Sam in his misery, not just once, but _twice_, committing on top of this the cardinal sin of not trusting his brother, refusing to forgive him. Sam may have been the resident selfish brat for their entire lives, but ever since Sam—no, _they_—had released Lucifer, Dean was steadily winning that title away from his little brother.

_I'm sorry_, Dean wanted to say, but "Don't leave me," was what came out.

Sam heard both, luckily, and nodded, and shushed Dean to sleep.

…

When Bobby checked on the boys later, in the wee hours of the morning, he was glad to discover them both finally asleep—for now at least. Dean lay on the couch, dead to the world, probably heavily drugged, with Sam sitting on the floor beside him, his head resting on the seat by Dean's chest. It was a picture of trust. Their arms were entwined in a way they would undoubtedly deny and blame on each the other's unconscious clinging tendencies the moment they awoke, but Bobby could not help but be touched at the sight. Sam's arm fell lightly across Dean's chest, a reminder of his presence, while his hand lay flat, palm against the side of Dean's neck, where the worst of the wounds were, applying no pressure, but protecting, cradling it. Dean had perched his hand atop Sam's head, the same aching skull which Sam had been loath for even the doctors to prod, while Dean was here permitted, even encouraged, to lay his hand protectively over his brother's brow.

Bobby would later claim that the tears which sprang to his eyes were due to dust in the air. The day was long gone in which seeing them together like this was natural enough not to be given a second glance. Bobby couldn't help but be reminded to marvel at the titanic forces it had taken to pull them apart the past year, and at the fact that they drew closer to their former selves with each passing day. Even if Sam and Dean didn't know it yet, things were back to the way they should be between them.

Still. Brotherly love wasn't going to solve the coming Apocalypse.

…

_And everything under the sun is in tune_

_But the sun is eclipsed by the moon._

…

THE END (?)

…

_A/N: Whew! Glad you made it here to the end, and thanks for reading! I'm glad I made it, lemme tell ya! Thanks so much to all those who left reviews and in general encouraged this story. I never would have continued it or even given it a second thought had it not been for your support! _

_This was my projected endgame, but then again this wasn't supposed to be more than a one-off anyway, so I can always be persuaded to keep going… ;) Seriously, though, it won't be as neatly tied off as I thought this bit was, but I can always do an "Encore" chapter if enough people request it, or if I didn't fulfill anyone's wishes sufficiently in this chapter, on account of I aim to please! _

_Otherwise, _fin_. I will be re-posting this under its correct title, _**The Dark Side of the Moon**_, in a few days, just so no one gets lost, so apologies ahead of time if my lack of knowledge deletes anyone's reviews or favorites or whatever. In other news, I've got a Wee!chester adventure in the pipeline which I hope you will check out, as well as my ongoing serial _Why Metallica Calms Dean Down_. Thanks again for reading, and I would love to hear what you think about this story, and am as usual always open to ideas and suggestions, so please drop me a line! :D_


	11. Encore: The Dark Side of the Moon

_A/N: Probably ought to have left well enough alone, but enough folks requested an encore that I just couldn't say no! Hope you enjoy, and if you don't, just ignore this one and only read up to Chapter 10! _

…

ENCORE: THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

…

"Come _on_, man," Dean whined, "help a brother out." While Sam was the master of getting what he wanted out of his brother, the very rarity of Dean's pleading gave Sam little practice combating it. He tried settling for silence, but Dean was dogged: "Come on, Sam, talk to me."

As was his way, the _moment_ Dean had felt well enough to, he made a fuss: about being babied, about being stifled, about wanting out of bed, out of the room, wanted back on the road. He was still as weak as a baby kitten—a half-starved, runt-of-the-litter kitten at that—and everything hurt and most of him was still broken and bloodied, but he wanted a change of scenery, and would brook no denial.

"Dean," Sam huffed, "You were just lying there, sick as a dog, for like thirty-six hours, man, give yourself a chance to recoup."

"Exactly why I want up."

Sam aimed below the belt: "Give _me_ a chance to recoup."

Dean's face twitched, petulance giving way to guilt, which was in turn mowed down by stubbornness. "Fine, I'll do it myself."

"No, you won't, you moron."

"I just, I dunno, wanna sit on the porch or something. It smells in here. I'll even let you hose me off while we're out there."

"Dean, it's _four in the morning_."

"Just do it, Sam, please? Gonna get freaking bed sores here, man."

Sam gave a monumental sigh. "Fine."

But as Sam began wrestling him to a sitting position, and then to his feet, Dean frowned: Sam looked a whole lot worse up close. He couldn't tell how long it had been since his brother had showered or shaved, but while it was easily more recently than he himself had done, that wasn't exactly saying much. Sam didn't look too badly injured physically, just dotted with greening bruises and a few butterfly bandages. But he looked exhausted, and frown lines were etched permanently into his face.

Sam needed some fresh air as badly as he did.

Dean's fever had broken, the demon blood having finally left his system, sometime the night before, after which he lay like a dead man for almost twenty hours further, his weak body trying to put itself back together and practically going catatonic to achieve this. He woke only once, briefly, during this time—

"_S-Sam…"_

"_Dean? You're awake!"_

"_Wh-where?"_

"_Bobby's house."_

"_Vamps? We r-run-ning?"_

"_No. Not running. They're all dead."_

"_You ok-kay?"_

"_Yeah, Dean, I'm fine."_

"_Hospital…"_

"_Uh, yeah, but I'm back now…"_

"_Good."_

"_Wait, Dean, wait, not time to go to sleep yet, here, drink this…"_

—and slept again for a few more hours. When he woke next, he was instantly alert and aware, his brain suffering no ill effects except for being steadfastly unwilling to reconcile what had happened to his body in the meantime. Dean had zero patience for weakness—especially his own.

Getting outside was a struggle, although it was a blessing to realize that among the list of injuries Dean had sustained, his legs weren't actually that bad off. Again, comparatively. An old weathered couch, a continuation of the salvage yard creeping up to Bobby's back porch, awaited them, and Dean tried not to groan too audibly when Sam finally released him down onto it.

It felt good to be outside. The night was peaceful and cool, and the porch light only attracted a few bugs, and it was so dark and clear the stars shone like Christmas lights in the sky.

"Thanks," Dean said after a minute.

"Ha-ha," Sam replied mirthlessly. "Don't think _I'm_ not getting anything out of this. You're well enough to sit outside in the middle of the night, you're at least gonna eat something."

Dean turned to him, betrayal and a childish pout glaring on his face. Neither were strong enough to defeat Sam in stubborn-Winchester mode, however, so he deflated and grumbled out a "Fine." He was hungry, it was true, but the fear of seeing it all come up again, swimming in blood, was enough to remind him to think twice—something he and food had long ago agreed they would never do. "No way I can bribe you outta this?"

Sam laughed. "No way, dude, you're at least gonna try. You gonna be okay out here for a few minutes? I'll go get us some breakfast."

"Yeah," Dean said, voice suddenly soft. He kind of didn't want Sam to leave him, but he wasn't about to voice this.

Sam, frowning-grinning at him, huffed and set Dean's cell phone down on the cushion next to him. "Call me if you need me, but I'll only be ten minutes," Sam said, and went back inside.

Dean laid his head back—met a spring poking out of the couch behind his head, and shifted a little to avoid it—and stared at the night sky. He knew what was out there, lurking in the dark, but damned if he didn't _like_ nighttime when he was positive it was safe and, preferably, had strong coffee to drink. It was peaceful and still here, now. His brother, Bobby, and Cas, a shout and four seconds away, in the unlikely event anything supernatural was ballsy enough to attack him here. Bobby's had been the only remotely home-like place Dean had ever known, and without realizing it, he tended to let his guard down while he was here.

As much as it was ever down these days.

Sam returned just as Dean discovered, low in the sky to the southwest, the moon, full and bright. He usually kept careful track of the moon—for werewolves, witches, that sort of thing—the way most people would keep track of the days of the week. The last time he'd looked at it, it had been a waxing gibbous at best, and the change startled him.

"How much time did I lose exactly?" he asked as Sam sat down next to him, a tray on his lap.

Sam followed his gaze to the moon, realizing immediately what had prompted this. "Well, huh, let's see," he began cutting the Eggo waffles, lightly buttered and syrupped, into bite-sized pieces. "You went missing the night of the…10th, I think? I didn't get you back until the, uh, the 21st." He played impatiently with a green tea bag sitting in a mug of hot water, and as much as Dean thought that shit tasted like grass, it wasn't worth bitching about it if Sam was going to make him drink it anyway. "They caught us again that night, and held us for another day, I think. Then hospital for me, and then that crap messing with your system for three days, and then your lousy Sleeping Beauty impression lasted another day."

"So…" Dean tried to work out the moon phases in his head, which was easier than following Sam's story, "the 27th?"

"Close. Moon's not technically full until the 27th, which is tomorrow. 26th."

"Kay," Dean nodded, glad to be back on track.

"All right, man, here's the deal:" Sam indicated the spread on his knees: orange juice, milk, tea, water, an Eggo waffle, a banana, an apple, and one slice of microwaved bacon. "You have to try everything, and eat two things and drink two things. Your choice, but you gotta finish them."

"All right, all right. Friggen nazi."

Dean chose the Eggo first, and then, growing bolder, ate the bacon and even most of the fruit voluntarily. After his obligatory sip of the grass tea he let Sam polish it off while he took down the juice, milk, and water.

The march through the rest of his breakfast was slow going, the sun having risen fully by the time he finished, but Dean felt enormously better afterwards. Even though it was humiliating that Sam often had to help him drink and eat like he was freaking four, as one arm was broken and limited in movement, and the torn ligaments in the other arm prevented him from gripping anything tightly, Dean felt much stronger and more comfortable after his breakfast. They heard Bobby wake, turn on his Oldie's radio station, and begin his day. Sam recognized a few strains of _Ticket to Ride_ wafting out the door to where they sat.

"Question," Dean said, randomly, in the middle of eating the banana.

"Shoot."

"Bang."

"What, are you twelve?"

Dean chose not to answer this. "Haven't you always wondered what it is about the full moon that gives werewolves and things their powers?"

Sam laughed. "Well, I'd _like_ to think it's psychological, because it doesn't make any scientific sense."

"What's not to get?" Dean argued. "When the light side's showing—"

"Dean, that's not how it works."

"—and when… Wait, what?"

"Did you _ever_ pay attention in astronomy?"

Dean colored slightly, which made Sam happier than it normally would have, as Dean's skin took on a color more akin to his normal tone. "There's a…uh…a light side and a dark side of the moon, right?" he tried, more tentatively this time, then, adding sophomorically, "Like the force."

Sam grinned. "No, man, that's not it. The dark side is the half of the moon that we never see from earth. The moon's in, well, they call it 'synchronous orbit' with the earth—means we only ever see one side of it."

"But—I thought—get out, you're shitting me," Dean smirked. Occasionally, in moments like these, Sam was proud of his time spent in college, with his head in books, or, hell, even just paying attention in high school to other things than skirt lengths. Those were times when he could "geek out," as Dean called it and teach Dean about something that Dean otherwise had no clue about—didn't care or need to know, really—just interesting tidbits that Dean was actually marginally interested in when they came from a trusted source and not some nameless authority that would interrogate him for the information again later. It was those rare times that Dean let his guard down, when pride in his little brother's big brain and his open wonder at the workings of the world showed plainly on his face. Those times when it wasn't a point of contention that Sam was smarter than him—as he was clearly stronger, wiser, and more handsome.

"No, really. And it's only ever lit from where the sun is in relation to the moon and the earth. That's how you get phases of the moon. We see the same side of the moon the whole time, so it has nothing to do with that. Science can't explain lycanthropy. You know, just like everything else it can't explain."

"Yeah." Dean looked strangely smug.

"So, in a sense, I mean, there _is_ no 'dark side' of the moon: it's all dark. The only light it gets is what is reflected off the sun."

Dean nodded solemnly, and Sam went quiet. That was poetic, somehow. In the ensuing thoughtful silence, each suspected that this conversation had actually been about something other than astronomy, only neither could determine what, if anything, it could have been about instead.

Then Dean decided enough was enough. If he didn't nip this in the bud, Sam was going to keep going and try to tell him that you can only see 10% of the universe because the rest of it is made up of dark matter or some shit.

"Dude."

"Yeah?"

"_Nerd_."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

…

THE END.


End file.
